


The Nation of Diamonds

by NickelModelTales



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, Africa, African Folklore, Battle, Colonization, F/F, F/M, French Characters, Hypnotism, Period-Typical Racism, Porn With Plot, Revenge, Sad Ending, Sexual Slavery, Shameless Smut, Slave Trade, Slavery, Tragedy, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 12:36:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20291560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NickelModelTales/pseuds/NickelModelTales
Summary: An erotic hypnosis adventure.  The young and beautiful Marguerite is a nurse caught up in the battles of France’s first colonization of Africa.  When a mysterious enemy arises, Marguerite and her unit are sent on a quest for a remote mountain, which may hold vast wealth… or an even greater evil.





	1. Battle Under the Silver Crescent

** _The Senegal Coast, West Africa_ **

** _April, 1679_ **

** **

“**_Listen!_**” First Musketeer Gerard de Noyen cried.

The weary 14th Company paused, their nerves already frayed. It was an hour from sundown. The hot breeze sighed through the acacia tree-forest, briefly rustling the undergrowth. To the remote south, the babbling of the great Gambia River could be heard. Wild storks quarreled with the flamingos, far, far upriver.

The soldiers scowled, glaring at de Noyen.

“I swear!” the musketeer protested. “I heard-”

Then, to the east, a faint shout was heard, just barely. Hardly audible over the murmurs of the trees, the human cry hovered over the acacias. Just for a heartbeat.

Every man in the company froze, color draining from their flush cheeks. They all knew that sound from far too many bloody encounters: A Yatallu battle-cry!

The French Royal Army battalion remained motionless, not daring to speak. One hundred and fifteen uniformed musketeers, plus their small support staff and porters, concentrated as hard as they could on the ominous forest.

A second battle-cry sounded, also from the east. And now, as the frightened men strained to listen, they could hear a low, growling pulse: **_BOOM_**_-boom-boom-boom-**BOOM**-boom-boom-boom…!_

War drums.

“They’ve found us!” a panicked Lycidas Nesle, Second Musketeer, cried. “They’ve found us!”

“They’re tracking us,” agreed First Ensign Regnauld de Verville, already reaching for his pistol.

The soldiers muttered and cursed, many shuffling west, already breaking formation.

“**_Form the lines!_**” bellowed Captain Céladon d'Aubigné, the company commander. The only man who rode a horse, the young officer now whirled his steed about and drew his sword.

The men glanced up at their leader, not assured. Captain d'Aubigné was the son of an aristocrat, but he had failed to inherit any of his family’s regal bearing. Tall and lanky, with a pointed nose, large Adam’s apple, and long, greasy hair which hung down to his shoulders, d'Aubigné seemed more a scarecrow on horseback than a trained military man. Even now, his men could see his lower lip tremble and his eyes dart about nervously.

“**_Form the lines, form the lines!_**” screeched the captain, his sword flashing in the air.

Quickly, the men scrambled back into formation.

Those Yatallu drums were growing louder. **_BOOM_**_-boom-boom-boom-**BOOM**-boom-boom-boom…!_

The 14th’s commander swiveled his head about, taking stock of the immediate terrain. There was a tall hill rising up from the forest floor, not two hundred paces to the northwest. A large, crescent moon hung directly overhead.

“Ensign de Verville!” barked Captain d'Aubigné.

Instantly, the First Ensign appeared alongside his master’s horse. “Sir!”

“Continue the retreat west back to Saint-Louis,” ordered the captain. “Steady movement, do not break ranks. I’m going atop that hill and see if I can’t spot the savages. Take no other action until I get back, eh?”

Ensign de Verville swallowed. “But sir, our wounded can’t keep up-“

“Strip the wounded of their weapons,” snapped d'Aubigné. “Then leave them. Can’t be helped.”

Without waiting for an acknowledgement, the aristocrat kicked his horse in the flanks and galloped off into the trees.

*********

“**_Leave the wounded?!?_**” an outraged Marguerite Yver howled as soon as Ensign de Verville passed along Captain d'Aubigné’s commands.

Exhausted, the Ensign glared at the eighteen year-old-nurse, wishing that **_for once_** she could simply obey orders.

“Regnauld , we will do no such thing!” the young woman snarled, already turning to the three nearby porters who were hurrying past. “**_You three!_**” she bellowed, her voice ringing with authority. “Drop what you’re carrying! Give me a hand!”

The African porters, without so much as a glance at de Verville, threw down their bundles and hurried to comply. Marguerite assigned each man to a limping soldier, helping to scoop up the medical packs as she shouted more frantic directions.

She was a remarkable woman. Ensign de Verville did not recall how Marguerite Yver joined the 14th Company, but from their first campaign, she had made her presence known. Her skill with battlefield medicine was just as impressive as her beauty. Marguerite had large, flinty blue eyes, a tiny nose, red lips, and delicate cheekbones. The dirt and harsh African sun had not weathered her breathtaking complexion in the slightest. The young woman’s long, sandy blonde hair tumbled down her sculp and neck, as wild and gorgeous as she was.

de Verville could also not help but admire Marguerite’s graceful body. With her trim shoulders and waist, yet full chest and hips, her slender legs, and elegant, swan-like neck, Marguerite was a woman who easily captured men’s eyes. Her simple nurse’s dress had been torn and ripped from both the forest brambles and from the need to create field tourniquets. Now little more than dusty rags, her bodice and tattered skirt poorly hid her sinful figure. Her legs, in particular, were practically nude. As she hurried about, they flashed behind the ribbon-like remains of her skirt. She wore the same black leather marching boots as the men.

A harsh Yatallu war-cry cut into Ensign de Verville’s distracted thoughts. The African horde was gaining.

“_Mademoiselle_ Yver!” the First Ensign protested, “we have to-“

“Look!” several of the men cried out, further ahead. Breaking discipline, they were pointing to the northwest.

de Verville followed their gazes. There, Captain d'Aubigné had reached the top of the hill on his horse. Only a small boulder shared the little mountain with him. The aristocrat turned to the east, staring in the direction of the enemy.

Although he was a good three hundred paces away, the French company saw their leader freeze. Captain d'Aubigné could see their pursuers… and he looked positively terrified.

Then, without even a glance at his men, the captain shouted, “Yah, yah!” at his horse. He threw down his sword, pointed his steed due west – away from his soldiers – and galloped off. He was gone in less than the blink of an eye.

Panic gripped the French company. “No, no!” wailed the men, some already dropping their muskets and fleeing after their deserting captain. The ranks were disintegrating.

Ensign de Verville felt his stomach twist. He was next in command. His mouth went dry. The drums and war-whoops were louder now. The Yatallu couldn’t be less than a thousand paces behind the French, and they swarmed over their native Africa with frightening speeds.

The 14th was doomed.

“**_Ensign!_**” Marguerite screamed, grabbing the junior officer by the hem of his blue travel cloak. “Ensign, you’ve got to get the men up there! **_Up there!_**”

She stabbed a finger at the hill.

Yes. **_Yes!_** Yes, the young woman was right! Basic military strategy! Seize the high ground!

Ensign de Verville’s training began to assert itself.

“Double-marche!” he yelled at his drummer boys, who stared back at him in horror. “Do it! _Se hâter!_ Sound double-marche!”

“I need more help with the wounded!” roared Marguerite, scrambling up onto a fallen tree. From this perch, she could look down on the soldiers. “You!” she cried. “And you! Pass along your weapons, and get over here! **_NOW!!!_**”

When confronted by life-threatening situations, human beings tend to respond to the voice of authority that promises order. The twin cries from the First Ensign and nurse combined to become that voice now. One-by-one, the soldiers of the company snapped back into the moment. The drummer boys sounded the march. The corporals regrouped their squads. The formations held.

“To the hill!” cried Ensign de Verville. “Best speed! _Se hâter!_”

*********

The terrified 14th blitzed through the forest, racing as quickly as their weary legs would allow. Tents and bedding supplies were cast aside to allow for greater speed. Only the handful of wounded soldiers, weapons, and ammunition were carried along. There was no time for any other considerations.

By the time the first squads had sprinted up the hill, the sun had nearly set. The moon had settled directly above the French, hovering passively in the sky.

The Yatallu drums and screeches were now nearly deafening, and already a few iron-tipped spears were landing among the company’s stragglers. Marguerite’s left sleeve was torn open when one such projectile nearly impaled her arm.

And yet, save a few cowards who haplessly fled the scene, the 14th made the assent. The men crouched together atop the hill, gasping for breath. The musketeers were already reaching for their powder horns.

With the setting sun behind them, the 14th could now look east and see the enemy. In the forest below them, Yatallu warriors were streaming out of the forest, brandishing spears, lionskin shields, and Arabian swords. The Yatallu dressed head-to-toe in battle robes of bone-white, and they were careful to completely cover their heads and faces. It made them into a vast, faceless enemy, like living ghosts returned to feast on the living.

“Oh sweet Christ,” Third Musketeer Hylas Pug cried, “there must be… **_hundreds_** of them!”

Now, at the base of the hill, the Yatallu swarmed about, strengthening their numbers. Marguerite shuddered when she saw them.

The Yatallu screamed and beat their shields. The drums and war-cries were thunderous.

And on the far side of the hill? The Gambia River. The French were trapped between the angry, dark waters, and the far angrier Yatallu. There was no escape.

In dismay, the 14th looked down on their enemy.

“Maybe… Maybe they won’t attack?” First Musketeer de Noyen said hopefully to Marguerite.

“No,” replied the nurse, her voice hard. “They’ll attack, as soon as they’ve organized. The Yatallu don’t pursue unless they want blood.”

First Ensign de Verville swallowed. He felt the eyes of the men upon him, awaiting his orders. His chest trembled.

And in that moment, Marguerite spotted something dull and metallic in the tall grasses. Captain d'Aubigné’s sword lay there, as if waiting for a French hand.

Though she was frightened to death, the young nurse snatched up the blade. Pushing aside a few men, she then scrambled atop the boulder.

At the moment, the clouds parted. The moon, directly above seemed to beam down upon the beautiful young woman. The setting sun grew a little dimmer.

“Men of France!” Marguerite shouted, raising the sword high. “Look not below, but at me!”

It was a struggle to be heard over the drums and Yatallu cries, but somehow Marguerite’s small voice reached all of her comrades. With some effort, they raised their eyes to her.

“**_Listen to me! Listen to me!_**” she bellowed, the wind throwing her thick hair behind her like a flag. “The enemy’s spears cannot reach us up here. And the sun sets to the west; that means it is behind us and in the eyes of our enemy! When they charge, they will be blind! Our best marksmen will be able to pick them off. **_The field advantage is ours!_**”

The French soldiers hesitated, realizing the truth in her words.

“**_Listen to me!_**” hollered the young woman, swinging the sword over her head. “We are a part of something eternal, something truly glorious. **_We are French!_** **_We_** are among the chosen few who sailed to every corner of this earth! **_We_** are the ones who roll back empires and wickedness and cast down darkness! **_We_** are the ones who lift all the Children of God into a brighter tomorrow. **_We_** have been selected by the Lord Himself for this great burden!”

The men stared up at Marguerite in awe. The young woman seemed possessed by a patriotic bravery, bestowed by Heaven itself.

“**_So stand with me, my brothers!_**” thundered Marguerite. ”**_We rise to accept this burden with glad hearts, knowing this cause it greater than ourselves! And if we should fall here, we will die knowing the Yatallu Kingdom was fatally wounded on this day. BUT FRANCE WILL ENDURE FOREVER!!!_**”

At this, the musketeers roared in approval. The fear washed from their bodies as if they were shrugging off a light rain. A fierce light glowed in the eyes of every man.

But then, the drumbeat changed, becoming rapid and evil: **_BOOM-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-BOOM-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-BOOM-BOOM!_** Abruptly, the war-cries ceased.

The Yatallu commander, whomever he was, had ordered an assault.

Battle had commenced.

“First musketeers to the front!” shouted Marguerite. “Pikemen, flanking! Second, third, and forth musketeers on relays! **_Hurry!_**”

The French soldiers sprang into formation. Already the first wave of faceless Yatallu knifemen were sprinting up the hillside. Hurriedly, loaded muskets were pushed into the hands of those on the French front lines.

Marguerite peered down the hillside. The advancing Yatallu were trying to hold their hands over their shrouded eyes. It was as she’d guessed; they were blindly charging into the sun. A few warriors threw spears, but these projectiles flew wildly off-mark.

“Steady…!” the young woman yelled, nervously realizing that the attackers might hit her by aiming for her voice. “**_Fire!_**”

The First Musketeers fired as one. The little explosions of flint against steel sounded like a thunderclap, shaking the forest to its very roots. Acrid white smoke rose up in the French guns.

The Yatallu shrieked, falling back. But then the next wave of fighters rushed over the dead.

“**_Relay!_**” shouted Marguerite.

Each First Musketeer tossed back his smoking weapon to a companion crouching behind him. A heartbeat later, a fresh gun was pushed into his waiting hands. Marguerite had to wait a mere three seconds before ordering the second volley.

“**_Fire!_**” she cried.

Again, the muskets roared. More Yatallu screamed, dropping into the grass.

“**_Relay!_**” Marguerite ordered. Muskets were rapidly exchanged.

In this way, the well-trained French kept up a steady fire upon the advancing Yatallu. The First Musketeers were excellent shots, and their brothers in the Second, Third, and Forth ranks reloaded the weapons with record speed.

Discipline held.

The battle raged on.

*********

It took every ounce of bravery Marguerite had to maintain command. The Yatallu, despite their appalling losses, kept coming, and they began to try and silence her booming voice once they got within range. More than once, the young woman ducked just time to avoid a spear or throwing-axe. Once, an arrow whisked through her hair, nearly hitting her ear.

What was frightening about the Yatallu was their sheer relentlessness. When a wave of them fell to the French guns, the next wave simply crawled over the corpses. It was almost as if they didn’t care about their own deaths. Not even British Redcoats marched this eagerly into battle.

Marguerite’s voice began to falter. She was shouting at the top of her lungs, and her throat was dry and cracked from the musket-smoke. Her eyes burned. She could feel the fatigue of her comrades, and heard the screaming of those who had been struck down. There couldn’t be much more ammunition left, she thought grimly.

Then an idea occurred. “Fire at will, fire at will!” she bellowed, hopping down from the boulder. Then, losing no time at all, she rushed to First Ensign de Verville, who was helping to reload.

“I need you!” she shouted at him, barely heard over the roar of battle. “_Suis moi!_”

The First Ensign and nurse rushed to the back of the French lines, where the 14th’s surviving wounded and dwindling supplies remained.

Marguerite kicked over a carrying-barrel of gunpowder, spilling the black grains across the grass. Then, the young nurse seized a wounded man nearby.

“I need your coat!” she barked. “_Maintenant_, soldier!”

In a twinkling, the fellow had shed his blue military-issue coat. Marguerite shoved two fist-sized rocks into the coat’s pockets, then hurriedly added handfuls of gunpowder. She buttoned the coat up as tightly as possible.

“A torch, a torch!” she commanded, not even looking up.

Another wounded man snatched one of the torches, offering it with trembling hands.

Marguerite carefully set fire to the outside of the coat, then began swinging the flaming garment above her head by the sleeves. The coat looped around and around. When she’d built up enough momentum, the young woman let the coat fly through the air, over the heads of the musketeers.

The fiery garment arced through the air, over the Musketeers, then down upon the Yatallu hoard. There was a roar and a burst of flame as the gunpowder detonated. Men screamed.

“Again!” Marguerite ordered the wounded. “Get more coats, horseblankets, whatever you can find. Prepare more projectiles. Don’t blow us up. **_Move!_**”

*********

Only three more makeshift bombs were necessary. After the last projectile exploded deep within the Yatallu ranks, the war-drums went silent. The white-clad warriors turned and fled, screaming with rage and defeat as they withdrew.

They disappeared into the forests in less than a minute. The air was still.

And the French stood on wobbly legs, blinking under the crescent moon, uncertain if they should trust their senses. Loaded muskets were ready to fire. More gunpowder bombs were ready to be lit. Every man was braced for one more wave of attackers.

But none came.

In the distance, river birds resumed their squawking. African locusts began chirping. The Gambia River babbled quietly as it skipped over rocks. Night was settling over the now-still forest. The Yatallu had vanished completely.

And then… as one… the French let out of tightly-held breath. Men lowered their guns, openly weeping and laughing to be alive. Several fell to their knees in thankful prayer. A few shouted in joy and relief.

The 14th was saved!

** _They’d won!_ **

** _THEY’D WON!!!_ **

A cheer rose up from French throats, a cheer which grew louder and more belligerent.

Tears of gratitude streaming down her cheeks, Marguerite staggered back to the handful of wounded soldiers. They had all survived. Every last one of them. She had never known such relief.

One soldier in particular looked up in delight as she approached. He was a short, lean fellow, with straw-colored hair, a farmer’s build, and a chiseled, handsome face. This was Tristan Allegrain, the 14th Company’s Second Ensign, wounded in the leg only two days earlier.

Marguerite collapsed onto her knees before him, then threw herself into his arms.

“We’re **_safe_**, my love,” gasped the young nurse, her chest heaving with raw emotion. “You will be safe.”

“With you watching over me?” beamed the soldier. “I never had doubt.”

Marguerite laughed and blushed at the same time. She pulled Tristan’s face into hers.

And the two lovers kissed.

*********


	2. A Travelers’ Myth

** _June, 1679_ **

** _Two Months Later_ **

For all its importance to the French colonial empire, Saint-Louis was a small outpost, really just a modest collection of thatched houses. The town squatted on the narrow isle of Ndar, which in turn squatted in the mouth of the Senegal River.

At the southernmost tip of the island was Fort _Triomphante_, a hastily-constructed castle of wood. The Royal banner of Louis XIV flew proudly from the fort’s central watchtower, and four heavy cannons faced out to the Atlantic, just in case Dutch warships decided to drop by. Further north were the docks, and then all the way up the _Rue Principale_, there were two dark warehouses.

The warehouses were the reason the French were in Senegal, and they betrayed a terrible secret. Far away in the New World, France and her rivals were building vast plantations, and there was a rampant demand for African slaves. So a handful of greedy French entrepreneurs had reached out to the African kings, bribing them with modern weapons, armor, fine cloth, beads, and other trinkets. And in return, these allies captured other Africans, put them in chains, and marched them off to Saint-Louis.

In the French settlement, these poor wretches were briefly housed in the warehouses. When enough prisoners had been accumulated, they were packed into slave ships, and sent to America. Families and entire communities were separated forever in Saint-Louis. The island was a monument to humanity’s cruelty.

*********

Most of the French stationed at Saint-Louis were conscripted. These common-folk men (and a handful of women) had no knowledge that the slave trade existed until they were standing on the Saint-Louis peers for the first time. Many shrugged and tended to their duties, rationalizing their service because, well, they had no choice.

But there was also a wealthy few who fully understood slavery’s barbarity and choose to profit from it anyway. These elites kept the slave trade operating year-round, and saw to it that their pockets were well-lined for their efforts.

Atop the pile of these corrupt administrators was His Excellency the Vicomte Guillaume Drouart de Farel III, the Regional Lord-Governor of Senegal. de Farel had ruled Senegal for almost twenty years, personally ensuring that the African kings were well-paid, and that new slaves were shipped off to America with greater and greater frequency. Over the years, the stroke of de Farel’s pen had condemned **_hundreds of thousands_** of Africans.

From his roost in the Commander’s Quarters of Fort _Triomphante_, de Farel now looked over another slave ship’s manifest. With satisfaction, he noted the number of slaves in the hold, then signed his approvals for the sale. That lone transaction earned him at least four hundred _francs_, cash on the barrel. Record profit.

“_Bon Dieu,_” the Lord-Governor sighed, pushing the last of these papers across his desk. An intensely obese man, even for the age, de Farel was perhaps fifty-five, although his gluttonous diet and overexposure to the sun made him appear far, far older. His tailored waistcoat, trousers, cuffed shirts, and red leather boots did little to hide the rolls of fat which seemed to define his bloated, worm-like body. Patches of red, blotchy skin covered his sweating face.

The Lord-Governor rose from his chair, waddled over to his sitting couch, then flopped onto the overstuffed cushions with a moan. “Blast this accursed heat,” he grunted. The fat man pulled his powdered wig from his thin scalp and then impatiently gestured for his African slave-boy to fan him faster.

Scooping up the papers from de Farel’s desk was Odart Brouard, the Lord-Governor’s secretary. Brouard, an insufferable toady, was one of the few men that de Farel permitted in his presence. “I’ll see to it these are dispatched immediately,” the diminutive little man promised.

“Yes, yes,” de Farel muttered, reaching for the platter of two roasted quails on the serving-table. “And see to it that you collect the docking fees, in gold preferably. It should be twenty _francs_, _comprendre?_”

Brouard frowned. Normally, when collecting fees from the slave-ship captains, the secretary would skim a little for himself. Now, it seemed, that de Farel was aware of that little enterprise. _Merde!_

In the event that de Farel retired (or died from overeating), Brouard fancied himself next in line for Lord-Governor of Senegal. It was why the weaselly little man tolerated his small salary and de Farel’s abuse. _Someday, Odart,_ the secretary promised himself. _Someday…!_

“Is that all the business for today?” the Lord-Governor rumbled, already tearing apart a roast quail with his bare hands.

“Um, no, m’lord,” reminded Brouard. “There is the scouting matter you wished to discuss with Colonel Gravon-“

“_Mmgh…!_” grumbled de Farel, mouth full of quail meat. “…very well. Send for the colonel.” He rolled his eyes in annoyance, then took another huge bite.

*********

Colonel Béroalde Gravon was the quintessential French military man. Tall, thin, with a trimmed beard and a battle-worn face, Gravon moved with the air of someone used to command. He always stood in ramrod posture, always in a fresh blue uniform, always with one hand casually resting on his sword hilt. After many campaigns back in Europe, Gravon had been assigned to Saint-Louis because he inspired fear and loyalty in those under his command. He was the embodiment of what used to be called “The Old Honor.”

Naturally, Colonel Gravon and Governor de Farel distrusted one another immensely. The colonel saw his service in Africa as a matter of duty. The governor saw his as an opportunity to enhance personal wealth.

Now, under the glowering eyes of de Farel’s African bodyguards, Colonel Gravon approached the Lord-Governor’s chambers. “Keep up, captain,” he snapped at the officer behind him.

“Yessir,” Captain d'Aubigné replied tamely.

Yes, this was the **_same_** Captain Céladon d'Aubigné who had abandoned the 14th Company upon the moment of battle. The captain, cowering from afar, had witnessed his men fight off the Yatallu hoards. When the struggle was over, d'Aubigné had slunk back, resuming command as if nothing amiss had happened. With considerable gall, he had ignored the hateful glares of his men. It was a small miracle there had not been a mutiny.

Then, upon returning to Saint-Louis, Captain d'Aubigné had reported to his superiors that it was **_his_** leadership which bested the Yatallu. _After all_, d'Aubigné reasoned to himself, _it was I who trained the 14th. So why shouldn’t I deserve credit for their valor in battle?_ The captain’s self-indulgence knew no bounds.

Now, colonel and captain stood side-by-side in the Lord-Governor’s office suite, saluting His Excellency the Lord-Governor himself. de Farel was still reclined in his sitting-couch, a nearly-consumed quail in his hands.

“Yes, yes,” muttered the fat man, wiping greasy fingers on his waistcoat. He squinted at Captain d'Aubigné. “So,“ he rumbled, “this is the hero who slaughtered so many of those Yatallu devils, eh?”

“M’lord,” d'Aubigné acknowledged, clicking his heels together.

The Lord-Governor snorted, pulling more quail meat off the bones. “Tell me, Colonel,” he grumbled, “why is it that so few of our men can report meeting the Yatallu in battle… and besting them?”

“The Yatallu are a cunning enemy, m’lord,” Colonel Gravon replied, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “They appear where we do not expect them, they attack with a savagery I have never seen before, and then they vanish. I’ve never seen such a foe so wily – or dangerous – before.”

“Hmmgh,” agreed de Farel, his fat cheeks already full.

Gravon paused to glance at the Lord-Governor’s bodyguards, who were lurking by the doorway. These huge men were Sotou’tor warriors, vicious African killers from a tribe far to the north. Gravon had witnessed these men in action; with a sword in their hands, they were the most lethal butchers he’d ever seen. Governor de Farel employed eight of these men, buying their sworn loyalty with heaps of gold and enslaved pleasure-women.

But secretly, the colonel wondered if the Sotou’tor were spies. The Yatallu seemed too well-informed about French operations.

As if guessing the colonel’s dark thoughts, the Sotou’tor glowered.

“Well,” de Farel remarked, oblivious to this exchange, “something must be done. The Yatallu are attacking far too many French convoys. Sooner or later, production will suffer. We can’t have that.”

“No sir,” agreed Gravon.

The Lord-Governor took another bite, ignoring the meat juice running down his chins. As he chewed, the fat man regarded Captain d'Aubigné with interest.

“Mmm, tell me, captain,” he said upon swallowing, “you’ve seen more of the Yatallu than anyone else in this room. What is your assessment of their battlefield prowess, sir?”

d'Aubigné stiffened. “Er…” he said, thinking quickly. “Well, they are savages, sir. Like most African tribes, they attack our musketmen with mere spears and knives. No sense of military strategy at all. It is their numbers alone which make them dangerous.”

“Indeed,” agreed de Farel. “So after you killed… how many, was it?”

“Thousands, sir,” d'Aubigné exaggerated.

“**_Thousands_** of the vermin, they shouldn’t be much of a problem for us now, should they?”

“Uh, no, they shouldn’t, m’lord,” said d'Aubigné.

The Lord-Governor grunted. His beady eyes narrowed as he studied his military men. He set aside his quail bones, then reached for the second bird. “Funny creatures, these Yatallu,” he mused. “We French have been civilizing Senegal for twenty years now, learning how to bribe or enslave the locals. We’ve met and subjugated the Baol, the Waalo, the Saloum, the Jolof, the Wolof… and countless others. Those tribes all bow to the French flag now. Heh.”

“But then,” continued de Farel. “Just when we think we’ve conquered every wretched little tribe, the Yatallu appear from out of **_nowhere_**. And in such vast numbers! Why, its as if the earth opened and the filthy buggers crawled out!” He shook his head, tearing off a drumstick. “They may be the devil’s own spawn, I wager.”

“Captain d'Aubigné is correct, sir,” Colonel Gravon ventured. “There can’t be that many more of the Yatallu left. In fact, my scouts can find absolutely no trace of them. _Rien!_ Not since they fell before the 14th’s muskets.”

de Farel nodded, chewing meat. “As I suspected,” he pronounced, after swallowing. “Still, it would be good to know that the Yatallu king is powerless. Or perhaps willing to sign a French treaty.”

“What are you proposing, m’lord?” asked Colonel Gravon, suspicious.

de Farel sat up, a considerable effort considering his bulk. “Tell me, Captain d'Aubigné,” he said intently. “Have you ever heard of _La Nation des Diamants?_ The Nation of Diamonds?”

Gravon and d'Aubigné exchanged looks.

“That’s… a traveler’s myth, isn’t it, sir?” d'Aubigné said. “Like the New World’s Fountain of Youth?”

“Or like… Oh, what’s that fable the Africans like to tell?” said de Farel. “The ‘Wonderful Warrior of the… the Night?’ What is it?” he barked at the captain of his Sotou’tor guard.

“The Great Warrior of the Moon,” the bodyguard rumbled, looking insulted.

“Yes, yes, that’s it,” chuckled de Farel, rolling his eyes. “Yes, I thought the Nation of Diamonds was a similar fairy-story… at first.”

There was a pause as the Lord-Governor slid a knowing glance at Secretary Brouard.

“One year ago,” he said to his officers, “Captain Legoux of the 3rd company surprised and captured a small Yatallu raiding-party. You remember that, don’t you, colonel?”

“Yes, m’lord,” frowned Gravon.

“You had those prisoners turned over to my Sotou’tor friends, here,” de Farel said, nodding at his glowering bodyguards. “Under considerable torture, one of those Yatallu wretches **_finally_** told us where his people come from. We now know where their kingdom lies.”

The obese governor flopped back onto his couch. “The man spoke of a mountain, far, far to the northeast. Several leagues past the Great Guiers Lake, in fact.”

Colonel Gravon frowned. “That is rocky desert country, _Monsieur_,” he said. “No-one could live out there.”

“The Yatallu do, apparently in great numbers,” countered de Farel, waggling a fat finger. “Our prisoner described a lush village, underneath a great mountain. And **_within_** the mountain? Can you guess what he said lies there?”

d'Aubigné’s heart leapt. “Diamonds, sir?”

“Yes, captain,” beamed de Farel. “A vast cavern, littered with diamonds. More diamonds than stars in the sky. A wealth of riches! So many diamonds, in fact, that they must be described as a whole **_nation!_**” The governor laughed aloud.

Captain d'Aubigné’s mind started racing. Unlike Colonel Gravon, he had no lofty notions about duty. A wealth of diamonds, waiting to be claimed by the French, just sitting out there in the desert! The possibilities… were tempting.

“Since it seems that the 14th company have broken the Yatallu’s power,” de Farel chuckled grandly, “it is only fitting that the men of Saint-Louis should secure this treasure.” He pointed at the two military men with a quail bone. “For France. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yessir,” d'Aubigné said eagerly.

“One moment, _Monsieur_,” Colonel Gravon cut in angrily. “You are not telling the full truth here.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” the Lord-Governor sighed, returning to pick at his quail. To d'Aubigné, he explained, “I did already send an expedition to this mountain. Captain Legoux, and his 3rd company, in point of fact.”

“And they never returned,” said Colonel Gravon, his voice hardened.

“**_Alain_** Legoux?” d'Aubigné asked in dismay.

Captain Alain Legoux had been a friendly rival to d'Aubigné. In the war against the Dutch, the two men had served side-by-side. They’d seen action in the Battle of Sinsheim.

“Yes, yes, yes, and a great tragedy it was that the 3rd were lost,” de Farel mumbled, seemingly untroubled. “But that was back in **_January_**, sir. The Yatallu have since been soundly weakened, thanks to Captain d'Aubigné here. And out of all your men, colonel, the 14th company have seen the enemy in battle.” He smirked. “Given their experience and the fragile state of the Yatallu, d'Aubigné should succeed where Legoux failed.”

Thoughts of diamonds faded from d'Aubigné’s mind. “M’lord?” he said stupidly.

“You have a new charter, captain,” Governor de Farel said grandly. “You and the 14th are to be reinforced, then sent northeast. Find the Nation of Diamonds. Secure it, if possible. Capture or kill the Yatallu king, if possible. **_But at a minimum_**, come back and tell us exactly where this mountain lies.”

The fat man nodded, content. “Once we know the mountain’s location… well, everything will change for the better. Wouldn’t you agree, colonel?”

*********

The French church at Saint-Louis was small and modest, but properly reverent. A crucifix of carved wood was suspended from the ceiling, just before the simple plate glass windows. Midmorning sunlight would stream through those windows onto the twelve benches which served as pews. And under the cross, a plain altar had been placed. The little podium seemed ill-sized for its task, yet the French Catholics of Saint-Louis did not mind.

The priest spoke softly to the handful of soldiers assembled in the pews, then gestured to the floor before him with a faint smile. Marguerite and Tristan approached, then knelt before him. They dared to exchange a delighted glance, if only for a moment.

The kindly priest took their hands, joined them together into a single embrace, then gently encircled them with a ceremonial wrap. “_Sacrificium Deo spiritus hominis est et mulier,_” he recited softly.

Marguerite forced herself to cast her eyes downward in prayer. Dressed in a simple, borrowed white gown, the lovely young woman looked more beautiful than ever. With the help of patient girlfriends, she had untangled her long hair, and now it was tamed into a simple braid laced with wildflowers. More flowers encircled her temple in a delicate crown. Her face shone with simple joy.

And she wanted to sing in delight. The last two months had been hard, so hard. After the battle on the forest hill, Tristan’s leg wound had lowered his resistance to disease. He and a third of the 14th Company had caught malaria on the march back to Saint Louis. It had taken all of Marguerite’s keen skills to keep Tristan alive. Luckily, she’d found _Osopa Awopa Dokita Igbo_ (African yellow wood bark), which served to stave off Tristan’s fever.

By the grace of God – and Marguerite’s tender care – he was alive to see this day.

The priest passed one hand over the couple’s entwined fingers. “_Respice in servos tuos nos orare,_” he said softly. “_Amen._”

Then the man straightened, beaming down on the young couple. “God smiles upon you, my children,” he told them gladly. To Tristan, he added, “You may kiss the bride.”

Tristan and Marguerite rose to their feet, overjoyed. The couple dove into one another’s arms. Their lips connected.

And the soldiers of the 14th, attending the wedding, cheered.

*********

_Le Tabouret_ was the one tavern in Saint-Louis, little more than a hut off the _Rue Principale_. The grimy little establishment served ales, black bread, and spiced mutton. For the French infantrymen stationed in Senegal, it was the only place that served as a connection to home. Now, perhaps a hundred off-duty soldiers (and various local young women) were packed within the cramped walls, all drinking deeply from the ale-bowls and laughing heartily. Monsieur Possot, the overworked tavernkeeper, looked positively fraught.

Sitting at the head table was Marguerite and Tristan, embracing and shining with delight. All here knew how much the two newlyweds had endured together to reach this day. The joy and friendship in this celebration could not have been more radiant.

And what a couple the bride and groom were! Everyone marveled at how much the two clearly loved one another. Tristan adored Marguerite for her selfless devotion, her fierce loyalty, and how she melted when he teased her or took her into his arms. Marguerite’s volatile temper had frequently gotten her into trouble, but Tristan was the only person who seemed to know how to calm her down.

Most of all, Marguerite had fallen head over heels for the skinny young man because he seemed to understand how alone in the world she truly was. Marguerite’s beloved mother had died when the young woman was merely twelve; her father had passed years before. After living as a Narbonne street urchin for a few years, Marguerite had been essentially pressed into the service of the French Royal Army to be a _femme de plaisir_ \- a prostitute. Before she knew it, she was in Saint-Louis, blinking in the harsh African sunlight.

But a life in the brothel was not a fate Marguerite was willing to accept. She’d erupted in rage the first time she was expected to service an infantryman, and the brothel _madam_ had instantly turned Marguerite out into the _Rue Principale_. Luckily, Marguerite had a quick intellect and a knack for battlefield medicine. She was reassigned as a nurse, and because she was willing to march on the convoys – anything to escape the horrors of the slave-houses – Marguerite soon found herself in the ranks of the 14th Company.

Tristan was the only man who looked past her beauty and scrappy personality. He saw her pain and rage, saw the wounded spirit within her… and he loved her anyway.

Now the happy couple held one another in a quiet embrace, smiling to themselves, almost oblivious to the celebration erupting around them.

Monsieur Possot refilled the ale-bowls, then hurried back to the ovens, already worried about the baking bread.

“A toast!” shouted Estienne Pithou, the 14th flag-carrier. Estienne was already red-faced from too much drinking. “Raise your voices to the happy couple!”

But just as the drinking songs began, the tavern door banged open. Looking chagrined, Regnauld de Verville (recently promoted from First Ensign to Lieutenant) entered the cramped room. He wore his military uniform.

“Regnauld!” the crowd shouted, beaconing. “Come, join us!”

But de Verville’s face was drawn. He climbed onto a table, then stamped his boot until everyone fell silent.

“I have news,” the Lieutenant announced. “Captain d'Aubigné has issued new orders. The 14th is to commence on a march, a long march.” He paused. “We leave the day after tomorrow.”

Instantly, the cheery mood deflated. Revelers lowered their drinks, staring at the lieutenant in disbelief.

Marguerite pulled her husband to her a little closer. _Thank God Tristan resigned his commission,_ she thought angrily. She hated Saint-Louis. She hated the suffering of the Africans. She hated how the common Frenchman was made to labor and risk their lives, and all for what? So the Lord-Governor could fatten his purse? She hated it all.

Tristan squeezed her hand and flashed a quick smile. His kind eyes reminded her: In two weeks’ time, the young couple were booked to sail for France.

*********

The wedding celebration was abruptly over. de Verville offered his blessings to the bride and groom, then hurried from _Le Tabouret_. His commanding officer already had given him a long list of duties.

But as the lieutenant moved onto the _Rue Principale_, rough hands grabbed his arm. He whirled about, instinctively reaching for his sword.

Four infantrymen, their faces flush with wine, had followed him from the tavern. de Verville knew them all; they were his brothers-in-arms.

“A new campaign?!?” sputtered Hylas Pug, his eyes slightly unfocused. “What’s this then, Lieutenant?”

“Yeah!” grunted Lycidas Neste.

de Verville knew why the men were upset. Soldiers stationed in Saint-Louis usually enjoyed three months’ duty in-base before venturing back out into the dangerous open wilds.

“Captain’s orders,” the lieutenant said weakly.

The four soldiers exchanged dark glances.

“Listen here, **_sir_**,” slurred Pug, drawing toward de Verville. “There’s no way the 14th is gonna serve under the **_captain_**, not after what he-“

“You’ll follow orders, soldier!” barked de Verville.

But Pug wasn’t about to back down. “Maybe the captain ought to meet with a knife in the belly-“

“I think what Pug means,” Neste said very quickly, jumping forward, “is that Captain d'Aubigné’s standing among the ranks is strained, sir. **_Very_** strained.”

“The **_only way_** I’m marching back into battle under that _connard_,” Pug snarled, “is if **_SHE_** marches with us.”

And the drunk musketeer turned back to the open door of _Le Tabouret_. He pointed straight at Marguerite.

“That goes for me, too,” seconded Estienne Pithou.

“Sir,” Neste said darkly. “Speaking for the whole 14th: The only way our company will march under **_that man_** is if she comes with us. Otherwise…”

He didn’t finish that sentence.

*********

After their wedding, Tristan and Marguerite were eligible to lodge in a private room, outside the Fort _Triomphante_ barracks. The shabby little dwelling was little more than a bed on a dirt floor. But to Marguerite, the little dwelling felt like a palace. Finally, she had Tristan all to herself!

The two lovers threw away thoughts of the 14th Company and Captain d'Aubigné and war. They had each other. Gratefully, they sat on the bed, kissing and fumbling with one another’s clothes. Tristan’s long shirt was easily pulled over his head, but the two had trouble untying the lacings on the front of Marguerite’s dress.

“…damned Paris fashions,” grunted Tristan. His bride giggled.

But then the strings were undone, and Tristan’s strong hands were reaching inside the opened garment. Marguerite sighed, mid-kiss, as she felt his gentle touch caress her breasts and nipples. She leaned forward, quickly growing aroused. She wanted Tristan to take her. Their kisses grew deeper.

The door to the room flew open with a bang!

Marguerite and Tristan flew apart, and the young woman quickly pulled her dress closed over her exposed chest.

Holding a lit candleholder aloft, Captain d'Aubigné stepped into the little room, his stern, hawk-like eyes sweeping over the two newlyweds. Lieutenant de Verville followed him, looking aghast at this whole scene. Both men wore their combat uniforms.

Old military habits kicking in, Tristan leapt to attention. “Sir!” he said stiffly.

The captain peered down at the furious Marguerite, noting her open clothing.

“Ensign Allegrain,” he said to Tristan, “perhaps you did not hear? The 14th is assembling for a march. All officers and men should have reported in by now.”

“Tristan resigned his commission,” Marguerite growled, rising to her feet. “As you well know.” With contempt, she added, “**_Sir._**”

Anger rippled across d'Aubigné’s face. “Careful, _Madame_,” he warned. “In Saint-Louis, high officers have certain discretions when dealing with impudence. Why, I could-“

“**_Sir,_**” implored Lieutenant de Verville.

d'Aubigné scowled, but did not press the matter. “I’m sure you’re both aware,” he said to Tristan and Marguerite, “that the Lord-Governor gives me the power to conscript men, should I determine such need.”

The newlyweds glanced at one another. “Conscript Tristan?” Marguerite echoed. “He’s served as an officer! You’d conscript him… and force him to march as an enlisted man?”

“But I need this man,” countered the captain. “He is an expert in the African languages, no?”

“There are plenty of translators available,” argued Marguerite, clenching her fists. “You can-“

Now d'Aubigné ignored her. “You have two options,” the captain said to Tristan. “Re-enlist. You’ll be promoted to First Ensign. Or refuse, and you’ll serve anyway as a junior pikeman.” He grinned, showing off his stained teeth.

“Oh,” the captain added, as if an errant thought had just bubbled into his mind. “And we’ll need a nurse, too. I have a poor view of women on the battlefield, but there’s no denying that some women…” – he cast a withering eye over Marguerite – “…can be useful. Sometimes.”

Stepping closer to the seething Marguerite, d'Aubigné said dryly, “So you might consider reenlisting as well, Madame. Else, who knows what might happen to your husband, should he encounter… misfortune… while on the march.”

The young women ground her teeth. She dared not say anything, for fear of losing her temper.

“Ah, so we understand each other!” declared d'Aubigné, faking delight. He paused for one smirk, then swept from the room.

*********


	3. The Journey Northeast

The 14th Company departed from Saint-Louis at dawn. Using every last ferry, the soldiers crossed the Senegal River, then turned and marched northeast.

They were outfitted for a long journey. The company now had ten horses, but only Captain d'Aubigné rode in the saddle. The other nine beasts were used to haul supplies, beddings, food stuffs, and a small chest of gold which d'Aubigné planned to use for bartering when they needed to resupply. The soldiers and Marguerite marched alongside the horses, dressed in new boots and long, blue military coats.

The road dove straight into the acacia forests, lazily winding around enormous, gnarled _Baobob_ trees, which seemed to be holding up the sky. The company found themselves staring up at these ancient giants in wonder. Strange, curious monkeys stared back at them from high in the boughs.

The Frenchmen were moving into the unexplored wilds of Western Africa. Soon the road disappeared, and the forest began dispersing. Tall grasses lapped at the soldiers’ knees. The rolling hills began to flatten. The thick canopy of leaves above their heads grew thinner and thinner.

Spirits were subdued. None of the enlisted men knew their objective, and even the two junior officers – Lieutenant de Verville and First Ensign Tristan – had only a smattering of knowledge. Captain d'Aubigné said nothing of where they were going. But one glance at the overloaded supply horses suggested the company would not see home again for a long, long time.

*********

“I’m telling you lad,” First Musketeer Gerard de Noyen was saying to young Pierre Gruner, “the sword must feel light in your grip.”

Marguerite glanced over at the two soldiers, walking not four paces to her left. The veteran de Noyen had taken “Little Pierre” under his wing, and enjoyed instructing him.

“You mean… like **_this?_**” Pierre asked, excited. He grabbed his own sword, ripping it from its scabbard. The motion was too quick, too clumsy, and the blade flew from the youth’s hand.

There was a cry from his fellow soldiers as the weapon flew through the air, whizzing past Jules d'Hurd and Andreas Piémont, two pikemen.

“Sorry, sorry!” Pierre cried, aghast.

The blade clattered against a jagged rock, then dropped into the grass. Marguerite, who was the closest, trotted over to scoop up the weapon.

As the nurse moved back to de Noyen and his pupil, she inspected the short cutlass. “This is a training sword, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Indeed it is,” de Noyen replied, a glint in his eye.

“Gimme that!” Little Pierre groused, snatching the sword. His face burned with embarrassment. “Women shouldn’t hold swords. They can’t use them, after all.”

“Oh?” Marguerite asked haughtily. “Why not?”

“Because,” said the youth, still beet red. “You… you know, your breasts… they get in the way when you have to… to parry. You know.”

Marguerite rolled her eyes, disgusted.

“Lad,” de Noyen laughed, “I’d wager this woman would be a far, far more lethal fighter than you.”

*********

After four days, the forests vanished completely. The soldiers found themselves on a sunbaked grassy plain, with brambles and only a few _Marula_ trees here and there. Herds of giraffes could be see slowly striding in the far distance. And then, a thin, blue ribbon appeared on the eastern horizon.

“That’ll be the Guiers Lake,” Tristan told Marguerite, pointing at the distant water. “We’ll follow it for a few days, until we reach its northernmost point.”

“The lake is that large?” Marguerite asked, surprised.

“Oh yes,” Tristan nodded. “Then there is a river, then a string of more lakes. Beyond that, there is an Arabs’ city to the north.” He grinned. “That city marks the end of French maps.”

*********

The river was not difficult to ford, although one of the horses panicked midstream. The poor frightened creature bucked and kicked and threw off its precious saddlebags. The company lost four barrels of gunpowder and half the tents, which were sucked far downstream before anyone could snatch them. There was nothing to be done.

Marguerite sighed. The loss of tents meant that most of the company would be forced to sleep on the bare ground. She’d forgotten how much she hated travel.

*********

The days crawled by.

The grasslands grew even flatter, and eventually the few remaining scraggly trees vanished. The earth was dryer and harder. Although the lakes were always visible, the land seemed parched and desolate. The grass itself grew thinner and tan in color.

But there was also reason for optimism. “We must be approaching that city you mentioned,” Marguerite said to Tristan, covering her eyes to peer into the far west. “Look.”

Indeed, the company could see another caravan in the distance, heading in the same direction. These travelers were the first people Marguerite had spotted since leaving Saint-Louis.

*********

The Arabs’ city was named _T’Kiz Turuq_, a smaller settlement in the crossroads of three different trade routes. The French wearily limped through the city streets, staring at the strange, dark-red mudhuts, the robed merchants, and the stables of camels. The many residents of the city stared back.

_T’Kiz Turuq_ was a blend of many African cultures, mostly dominated by the Moors from the East. Although it was not geographically accurate, the French commonly referred to these people as “Arabians,” although actual Arabians lived far, far beyond Africa.

Once the 14th Company was gathered in _T’Kiz Turuq_’s large town square, Captain d'Aubigné swung into action. “Lieutenant de Verville!” he barked. “Get the men quarters for the night. Then see to food and drink. Where is Ensign Allegrain?”

“Here, sir,” Tristan replied.

“I need your knowledge of African tongues,” ordered the captain, dismounting his horse. “Come with me.”

Marguerite, if for no other reason than she distrusted the captain, hurried after the two men as they disappeared into the Arabian crowds.

*********

Captain d'Aubigné wandered through the streets of _T’Kiz Turuq_, craning his neck to peer into buildings as he moved. Tristan and Marguerite moved a step behind him, wondering what their commander was up to. He seemed to know what he was looking for, yet have no idea where he was going.

When the three Europeans turned a corner, d'Aubigné suddenly said, “Aha!”

Before them, was a squat one-story building, built in the Arabian style. Beaded curtains hung over the windows and wide doorway. Camels and strange-looking horses were tethered outside. Pipe smoke wafted from the interior.

“Allegrain,” said the captain, gesturing for Tristan. “We’re here to locate a suitable guide. The Moors travel through these lands; we should find one inside. Remember,” he said sharply, pointing a rigid finger, “these greedy people will try to swindle you out of any coin you may have. I’ll need you to do the talking, but leave the details of the haggling to me.”

“Yessir,” Tristan nodded.

d'Aubigné cast a disparaging eye on Marguerite. “You,” he snarled, “say nothing. Arabians do not respect a woman who isn’t silent.”

The young woman’s cheeks turned red, but she held her tongue.

*********

Feeling out-of-place, the three French entered the salon, squinting in the dim light. Men in Arabic and African robes lounged about on sitting-carpets, most smoking the oddest pipes Marguerite had ever seen. A servant boy or two darted about, bringing cups or trays of strange food. The chatter was low and subdued.

But all voices were still as Captain d'Aubigné’s party entered. The tall captain removed his wide-brimmed hat, scanning the curious Africans.

Dark-skinned faces stared back, most unfriendly. The French had poor reputations in Africa, and no doubt there were a few members in this crowd who wished ill fates upon the Europeans.

Marguerite noted more than a few men were eyeing her body. The Frenchwoman had folded her blue coat over one arm, and now all could see her tightly-buttoned blouse and travel breeches. Her natural curves were on display. With a displeased frown, she quickly put the coat back on.

“It would seem, sir,” Tristan murmured to d'Aubigné, “that no-one-“

“_Marhabaan alfaransia,_” a deep voice said from behind Marguerite.

The three French turned. A dark-skinned man sat cross-legged on a carpet behind them, dressed in simple gray robes, which revealed only his lean face and long hands. His brown eyes were bright and examined Captain d'Aubigné carefully. Complimenting his sunken cheeks, his thin nose and pointed chin made the man’s face seem almost angular to behold. He was handsome, and his attractive features made his age impossible to guess. Marguerite sensed he was perhaps not much older than Tristan.

A leather pouch hung around the man’s throat; his long fingers absently rubbed that pouch now.

As the French and the stranger regarded one another, Marguerite realized there was a beautiful young woman sitting behind the man, also dressed in identical robes. Her face was carefully veiled, but her deep, beautiful eyes shone up at the three French.

The man smiled limply, gestured, then said, “_'Ant tabdu dayieat ya 'asdiqayiy._”

“He says that we look lost,” Tristan translated.

Captain d'Aubigné rubbed his jaw once, then squatted opposite the stranger. “Ask his name,” he ordered. Tristan did so.

The cool reply: “_Curragh._”

“He’s Moorish,” d'Aubigné declared, locking gazes with the other fellow. “Perfect. Explain only that we are traveling northeast, and ask if he has ridden there.”

Tristan knelt next to his commander, speaking haltingly in Arabic. Curragh’s face never once flickered as he listened.

Then followed a brief exchange, where Tristan asked questions, usually prompted by d'Aubigné. Curragh answered hesitantly. Sometimes he seemed to resent the Europeans’ queries.

“He’s a merchant,” Tristan translated. “Spices and brassworks, it sounds like. He comes from Algiers, originally, but… It sounds like he was exiled from home. He won’t say why.”

“_Nansaa madi, nansaa madi,_” Curragh scowled, clearly guessing at what Tristan was saying.

“Exiled?” frowned d'Aubigné. “That only means he’s a thief.” The captain thought quickly. “All of the Moorish are filthy thieves, of course. We’ll simply have to watch him closely. Explain to him that we will pay him handsomely, if he takes us northeast.”

The Moor listened to Tristan carefully, stroking his pouch with long fingers. “_'Iilaam taseaa?_” he asked suspiciously.

“There is a mountain, ten leagues out into the desert, to the northeast,” said d'Aubigné, speaking slowly and loudly. “A lone mountain, very tall. There is a village nearby. Ask him if he knows it.”

Tristan relayed the message. Immediately, Curragh’s eyes grew wide.

“_'Ana 'aerif hdha almakan!_” the Moor exclaimed. In wonder, he stared at d'Aubigné. “_'Ant shujae balfel…!_”

“He knows the place,” Tristan said.

“How marvelous,” said d'Aubigné dryly. “Offer him ten pieces in gold.”

Tristan made the offer, gesturing frequently with his hands. Then Curragh spat, making a face.

“**Khamsun**_ qiteatan dhahabiatan,_” he demanded.

“He wants fifty pieces,” informed Tristan.

And so the haggling began. Curragh finally settled for twenty, plus food from the company’s supplies.

“_Ahay' akhar…!_” the Moor added, flicking a sly look back at his female companion.

“One last thing,” Tristan explained, listening closely as Curragh spoke rapidly. “He wants to bring along… his servant?”

“_Mahaziya,_” nodded the Moor.

*********

Curragh surprised his French hosts when he arrived to depart with them the following day. The merchant rode atop a shaggy camel, with four more camels in tow. Three of the beasts carried heavy bundles, but the fourth had his female companion riding in a saddle. The woman was dressed in a fine, light-blue robe, completely hiding her faces and thin body. She sat proud and tall upon her mount.

“_Mahaziya_,” explained Curragh, indicating the woman.

Captain d'Aubigné scowled. “He didn’t say he was bringing his… his… his wife!”

Tristan gave a wary glance. “I don’t think she’s his wife, sir.”

“Women don’t belong on long journeys,” stated d'Aubigné firmly, completely forgetting Marguerite.

But there was nothing to be done. Curragh refused to leave his lady friend behind, and d'Aubigné was unwilling to return to the salon to start all over again to find a new guide. The French soldiers, already accustomed to Marguerite in their ranks, shrugged their collective shoulders.

For the desert ahead, the 14th Company had shed their traditional French uniforms. Now they dressed in light robes of Egyptian cotton, far more suitable for the hot and unforgiving lands before them. The horses were sold and exchanged for camels, which could carry more and cost much less. Extra water bags were quickly added to the supplies.

“_Atabieani!_” Curragh cried to his hosts, a wide smile on his face. He turned their party northeast.

*********

The road out of _T’Kiz Turuq_ swung north, through strange, rocky country. The land itself was orangish-red, with jagged hills and valleys rolling in all directions. There were few patches of green here, mostly desert palm trees and tough-looking brambles clinging to the earth. The few wild animals Marguerite spotted looked lean and half-starved.

Curragh rode at the front of the French column, sitting in his saddle as if it were a throne. When the road ended, the Moor guided his camel over the harsh terrain with confidence, as if he’d known these lands all his life. What landmarks he was using to navigate, his French companions couldn’t say.

When the sun was directly overhead, Curragh guided the party to a patch of trees at the foot of a dirty-looking pond. A midday halt was called, if only to give the camels rest.

The French sprawled on the ground, already weary. But Curragh remained on alert, scanning the lands about them with watchful eyes.

“_Mushahadatan lilmusafirin alakhirin,_” the Moor advised his French hosts, his white teeth shining as he smiled.

Marguerite and Tristan nearby, lounging in the shade. The Frenchwoman frowned. “What did he say?” she asked her husband.

“_’Keep an eye open for other travelers,’_” Tristan replied.

Stunned, Marguerite looked all about. “Out here?” she exclaimed. “Among these barren rocks? Who else but us would be in such godforsaken country?”

*********

But Curragh’s words proved to be prophetic. Two hours later, the French company spotted a small cloud of dust approaching across the plains to the south.

“It’s another caravan,” Lieutenant de Verville said in surprise, peering through the company’s only spy-glass. “They’re coming up fast.”

Captain d'Aubigné made a face. “Issue the weapons,” he ordered. “They may well be a Yatallu raiding-party.”

But Marguerite was doubtful. She didn’t know what the 14th Company’s mission was, but surely they had traveled far, far beyond the Yatallu’s reach?

From their eyes, the young nurse could see that the French soldiers were mulling the same doubts. Nonetheless, they reached for their muskets.

“_La!_” shouted Curragh, when he saw the musketeers loading their guns. “_La la la! Hwla' 'asdiqayiyin!_”

“He says to hold fire,” Tristan worriedly told Captain d'Aubigné.

*********

The caravan soon approached. They proved to be twenty men and six women, all on camelback, all dressed in North African robes. Their leader, a towering dark-skinned man named Mokrani, greeted the Frenchmen with a wide and glowing smile.

“Hello, friends, hello, hello!” he beamed, after trying several other languages. “You are French, yes? Well, hello!”

Mokrani and his companions were thin and had weather-beaten faces, yet looked down upon the 14th Company with kind eyes. Their robes were travel-stained, but very well-made, suggesting they regularly moved through the harsh deserts. They smiled and waved politely at the astonished Frenchmen.

Captain d'Aubigné was nonetheless suspicious. “Ask Curragh if he knows these laggards,” he ordered Tristan.

But Mokrani descended from his camel, approaching the captain with something small in both his hands, something wrapped in cloth. “Here, friend, here here here!” he grinned.

Within the cloth was an ornately-carved wooden box. Captain d'Aubigné lifted the lid, exposing ground tobacco snuff inside. It smelled of cocoa and cinnamon. A wealthy man’s snuff, a luxury item.

“_'Iinah yuetik hadiatan,_” explained Curragh, observing this ritual from his saddle. “_'Iinah yarghab fi alsafar maeak._”

“It seems,” Tristan explained, “that these men wish to travel with us. At least for a while. They are presenting this gift to impress you, sir.”

“Yes, yes!” beamed Mokrani.

The French officers shuffled on their feet, caught off-guard.

“I don’t like this,” Captain d'Aubigné muttered.

“But sir,” said Lieutenant de Verville. “There could be safety in greater numbers.”

“None of these people have weapons,” observed Tristan. “They’re just merchants and women.”

“I don’t like this,” Captain d'Aubigné said again. But he did not object.

*********


	4. Campfire Stories

The travelers all continued: Curragh in the lead, then the 14th Company, and finally Mokrani’s caravan a respectful distance to the rear. The merchants turned out to be a merry bunch; Marguerite was surprised when they began singing traveling songs.

As before, Curragh seemed to know exactly where he was going. The handsome Moor rode in silence, occasionally looking up at the hot sun. The lands continued to be alien and harsh. Once or twice Curragh would steer the travelers around an inky black mud pit or through a wide patch of strange, spongey desert moss. Never once did the Moor look back.

Like the rest of her compatriots, Marguerite grudgingly trudged on. Her feet ached; her mouth was dry and parched; her robes and face were covered in a fine layer of dust. She remained at Tristan’s side, often wishing the two of them could be anywhere. Anywhere but here.

*********

As the sun was setting, Curragh held up a hand. The party had reached a small oasis, with a cool well of fresh water and some brave desert grass. A herd of gazelles and dozens of water birds scattered as the humans descended upon the tiny, clear blue pond.

“_Yjb ealayna mueaskar huna allayla_,” the Moorish guide advised.

There was no need to translate that. Immediately, the French and the African merchants broke out their tents. It had been a long, hard journey.

*********

The traveler’s supper is rarely a feast. In _T’Kiz Turuq_, the French had restocked their supplies with dried dates and_ khabaz jafun_, a flat, flavorless bread. It made for an unappetizing meal. But three of Mokrani’s merchants disappeared into the desert with long bows and arrows. They returned to the bonfires with three just-slain topi, a strange, long-horned deer that Marguerite had never seen before. The Africans roasted the beasts over the fires, and shared the fresh, dripping meat with all. Soon, everyone’s bellies were full.

Twilight passed into night. Weary, yet unwilling to sleep just yet, the French and Africans sat before their respective fires. Marguerite and Tristan built a small campfire for themselves, away from the others. The young nurse pressed against her husband, simply enjoying the feeling of his body so close to hers. She absently rested her head upon his shoulder. He took her hand.

How was it that on Marguerite‘s very wedding night, she and her husband never had the chance to **_truly_** enjoy one another’s company? That their marriage still remained unconsummated? The young woman permitted herself a wave of self-pity.

Tristan must have sensed her depression. “What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing, nothing, my love,” Marguerite murmured quickly. She patted his forearm.

The young ensign chuckled. “You don’t fool me,” he gently chided her. “I know the Love of my Life too well.”

Despite her fatigue, Marguerite felt herself smiling. “I’m the love of your life?” she asked, delighted.

Tristan swung his head to look directly at her. “You are the most precious woman I have ever known,” he told her softly. “My soul is complete only with you.”

The young Frenchwoman felt herself fall in love with this wonderful man all over again. Sometimes, Tristan would speak in pure, unexpected, and absolutely beautiful truths, and her heart would gladly melt for him.

Touched, Marguerite’s eyes filled with quiet tears. She pulled Tristan closer.

The breeze strengthened, choking Tristan’s little fire. 

“Awwww, _zut_,” Tristan swore. He hopped up, tenderly poking the blaze with a stick.

“Leave it, leave it,” pouted Marguerite, already missing the comfort of Tristan’s body.

“No, we need to sleep before a fire,” Tristan grumbled. “Otherwise, we may well freeze.”

Despite his care, however, the little fire gasped, then was gone.

“_Enculer_,” the First Ensign groaned.

Almost immediately, Marguerite felt an unpleasant chill. She shivered.

“Com’on,” she sighed, climbing to her feet. “Let’s just find space at someone else’s fire.”

*********

The newlyweds wandered through the camp, hopefully looking to the other French bonfires. Most were overcrowded, with no room to spare.

“Let’s keep searching,” grumbled Tristan.

At that moment, Little Pierre nearly trampled over Marguerite. The lad and his sword-master, Gerard de Noyen, were sparring. Pierre ran about as he tried to outflank his teacher.

“Hey!” protested Marguerite.

“Out of my way, woman,” spat the boy, already dashing away.

Her temper roused, Marguerite nearly chased the youth.

“Hey,” Tristan said, quickly catching her arm. “Let him go; he’s just a boy.”

The young Frenchwoman glared, but calmed herself nonetheless. The duel between Little Pierre and de Noyen receded.

“Hello, Frenches, hello, hello!” cried a nearby voice.

It was Mokrani, not twenty paces away. The African merchants had built a towering bonfire, and now Mokrani was holding court among his compatriots. All smiled and beaconed to Marguerite and Tristan now.

Marguerite and Tristan glanced at one another. Tristan shrugged. “They seem friendly,” he observed.

Immediately, Mokrani gestured to his people, urging them to make room for the young French couple. Marguerite noticed that Curragh and his companion-woman sat among the Africans. The Moorish guide was silent, absently fingering the pouch about his neck.

The French newlyweds sat, already grateful for the warmth of the fire.

“_Huna_,” a man said to Tristan, passing him a long, strange-looking pipe. “_Jarib hdha._”

Looking apprehensive, the young ensign raised the pipe to his lips. He sipped it carefully. And then turned green.

The Africans roared with kind laughter as Tristan gagged, reeling. He handed the pipe back quickly.

“You must forgive, Frenches, yes, yes,” Mokrani chuckled. “We forget, _tabgh_-smoking is not for all.”

Marguerite slapped Tristan on the back, casting a glare at their hosts.

“You all speak French,” observed Tristan, between coughs.

“Most do,” Mokrani replied. “The French, they are everywhere nowadays. One cannot trade in Africa without speaking French.”

The merchant clapped his hands together, exactly once.

“Let us play a game,” he announced, sitting taller. “An old African custom when strangers meet is to tell a story. And old story, known among your people. We exchange stories, and then we know one another truly. Eh?”

Marguerite and Tristan exchanged surprised looks. “I… don’t know any stories,” Tristan objected.

“All men know stories,” said Mokrani, waving a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes. I will go first. Have you Frenches ever heard of the Great Warrior of the Moon?”

Marguerite cocked her head to one side. “Isn’t that a child’s story?” she asked.

“No!” exclaimed Mokrani, delighted. “Not for children! A story as old as the earth itself! **_And_** a story about the future!”

The man’s enthusiasm was infectious. As Mokrani leaned forward, gesturing grandly, Marguerite could not help but admire his oratory skills. “You see, Frenches,” he said, “long, long ago, there was a great war between kingdoms, here in Africa. And one king, he allied himself with wicked spirits. Horrible ghosts that consumed the very souls of men! Thousands of innocents fell to this black magic. They became slaves in an army of the damned.

“The people of Africa,” Mokrani went on, “feared for their very future. So they went to the last good king, and they begged him to save them.

“This King, he prayed to the old gods. For three whole days, he prayed. And in the end, a powerful spirit descended from the moon, entering his body. Suddenly, the king was supremely wise in the ways of war. He led his handful of warriors into battle against the evil spirits and their slaves. And although the enemy was great and powerful, the King outwitted them all. Evil was vanquished that day.”

“But not forever,” another merchant chimed in. “The dark spirits, they retreated into the Barren Lands.”

“And became the Nation of Diamonds, yes, yes, “ Mokrani said impatiently. “Quiet man, you are ruining the best part of the story!”

“The Nation of Diamonds,” Marguerite interjected. “What’s that?”

The merchants’ smiles melted. Mokrani paused, his thoughts unguessable.

“It was said,” he finally said, “that the spirits found a lone mountain. Inside, they created a cavern of diamonds. Countless diamonds!”

“Why would they do that?” Tristan asked, puzzled.

“The diamonds are a trap,” explained the other merchant. “The cursed gems are to lure the greedy. The spirits hope to use this wealth to enslave new followers.”

“**_Anyway_**,” Mokrani continued, “what is important, Frenches, is that after victory in that battle, the good King died. Yes, yes. It is said his spirit drifted back to the moon… but will return to this world one day.”

“That’s a sad story,” Tristan remarked.

“All great stories end sadly,” beamed Mokrani. “It is why we tell them, no? So we may appreciate the life we have.” He folded his great hands in his lap. “So,” he prodded, “now you must tell us one of your tales.”

“Oh…” Tristan mumbled, “I really don’t-“

Inspiration hit Marguerite. “I know an old French story,” she perked up.

The merchants grinned. “Tell, tell!” urged Mokrani.

“Well,” Marguerite mused, gazing into the fire, “Its from French history, actually. I haven’t heard it since I was a little girl.”

“Long ago, in my homeland,” she said slowly, “there was a terrible war, a war that lasted over a hundred years. My people’s enemy, they came from across the sea by the thousands, and they conquered much of our lands. Even worse, the French king was young and foolish and didn’t know how to repel the invaders.

“A great city was under siege, about to fall,” continued Marguerite. “And far, far away from this battle, a young maiden, barely a woman, heard of the oncoming disaster. In her despair, she knelt and prayed to God for guidance. And God sent the Archangel Michael with commands and a gift of great wisdom.”

“Ah,” Mokrani grinned. “Like the African King of our tale. Yes, yes.”

“The maiden – her name was Joan – she traveled to the king’s court,” Marguerite said. “She must have impressed the king, for he sent her on to the besieged city. Once there, she immediately saw both the strengths and weaknesses of the enemy. She knew how to defeat them.

“Joan rallied the weary French troops. They struck, knowing exactly where to hit, and they scattered their enemy to the winds. Later, when the opposing army regrouped, Joan knew they were only pausing to gather more strength. So she gathered the men she could find – not many – and they charged the enemy in the field.”

Marguerite paused, enjoying the rapt expressions of her audience. “The enemy should have won,” she regaled. “They had a much larger army. And they didn’t see Joan as a threat, not until it was too late. She routed their best swords, then smashed them on the field. The city – and all of France – was saved.”

“A woman leading soldiers into battle!” laughed Mokrani. “Amusing!”

“Surely a tale of fantasy,” another merchant agreed.

Marguerite stiffened. “No, that is **_actual_** history,” she insisted. “A story that proves the virtue of France in the Eyes of God.”

“Ah…” Mokrani said. The Africans exchanged skeptical looks. But no-one challenged Marguerite.

*********

The company resumed their trek at daybreak. They were now passing directly east, through completely flat lands that were so dry and sunbaked, not even the scraggly brambles could survive here. An endless patchwork of cracks in the waterless earth spread in all directions. There were no birds, nor insects. Marguerite had never imagined so desolate a place.

The French were unused to desert travelling. The sun beat down, as if determined to drive them back to friendlier countries. All about, the air shimmered as it rose up from the hot ground.

Despite Captain d'Aubigné’s impatience, Curragh insisted that the caravan’s pace slowed, if only to conserve energy.

And then, bad luck: One of the camels d'Aubigné had purchased in _T’Kiz Turuq_ abruptly died. The beast groaned in mid-step, then toppled forward. The tents it was carrying spilled all over the ground. All provisions had to be carefully rearranged in a hurry.

“Bad luck,” Marguerite grumbled ominously.

“At least the water camels are still with us,” countered Tristan. “Had one of the water-bags spilled, it might be death for us all.”

“How cheerful,” his wife grunted.

*********

The next three days were even more long and unforgiving. The company shuffled carefully over the barren earth, pausing at midday to wait out the worst of the heat, then camping in the dark nights.

Progress was slow and painful. Everyone’s mouth was dry and parched. No-one wanted to talk. Even Mokrani’s ever-merry companions seemed miserable.

Marguerite wondered if she was marching into a living nightmare.

*********

Fortunes changed for the better on the fourth day, however, when dark clouds appeared over the eastern horizon. The sun seemed to lose its anger. The air grew cooler.

“Rainclouds?” Marguerite croaked in surprise. “Over the desert?” She squinted in the direction of the ominous weather.

“Perhaps there’s a large oasis before us,” Tristan muttered hopefully.

In any event, Curragh steered the caravan directly towards the center of the dark storm ahead.

*********

As the travelers continued east, the air continued to grow cooler. The purple clouds became larger, and Marguerite could even see the great mists swirling around each other.

But the cooler temperatures meant that the company could make much better time. It was amazing how relief from the oppressive heat and then a little breeze helped to boost spirits. Everyone marched on easily, almost enjoying the moment. They skipped their usual midday break, and by sundown had covered nearly two days’ distance. Spirits were higher when the company made camp that night.

In fact, while supper was being rationed, Little Pierre goaded his teacher de Noyen into yet another mock-battle. The two danced about the camp, delightedly whacking at each other with their toy weapons.

“Why,” Marguerite warily asked her husband as the combatants swirled nearer, “do men love the idea of killing one another?”

“Oh, _tut-tut,_” Tristan clucked. “Pierre will have to know this skill someday. Most men would be thrilled for the education he’s getting.”

“He’s learning how to **_kill_**,” argued Marguerite, growing angry. “Why is that something to be admired?”

“It’s the French way,” was all Tristan could offer. “In fact-“

At the moment, Pierre sprang to his left, swinging his sword wide. The dull blade swished through the air, striking Marguerite in the hip.

“Ow!” she shrieked.

Pierre hesitated, panting heavily. “Stay out of my way, woman,” he mocked, then reattacked his teacher.

Marguerite saw red. “Oh, **_that’s it_**,” she growled. And before her husband could stop her, she plunged into the duel.

In a flash, the little nurse’s hands shot out, clamping onto Pierre’s and de Noyen’s sword wrists. Her motion was faster than a strike of lightening, yet she caught both men with an expert’s skill. Then, planting both her boots, she twisted her waist, thrusting downward.

Both student and teacher never saw her coming. One second, they were about to connect swords, the next, they were lying on their backs, sprawled in the dirt, their swords flying from their grasps.

Everyone in the camp looked up in surprise.

Marguerite, breathing heavily, released both men. She strode over to the fallen swords, scooping them up with angry movements.

“You two can have these back when you can play without hurting others,” she snapped.

de Noyen sat up, rubbing his head. He looked amazed. “…how did you do that?” he asked in awe. “Only the greatest combat-masters can disarm trained swordsmen like that.”

Marguerite paused. She had no idea. She’d simply **_reacted_**. Simple physics had done the rest.

*********

In the morning, the company was surprised to see dark weather still lurking in the east. If anything, the heavy clouds had only grown heavier during the night.

Before the French could break camp, Mokrani made an announcement.

“This is where we part, Frenches,” he said, and he seemed genuinely sad. “My people and I, we must head north now. We will miss your company and your strange customs, yes, yes.” He placed a hand over his heart and gave a sad smile. “May Allah guide your way.”

Then the African merchant gave another gift to Captain d'Aubigné, an ornate ceremonial dagger with strange carvings in the hilt and blade. “For our most favorite warrior-captain,” Mokrani explained, bowing and smiling.

“Hmmgh,” Captain d'Aubigné replied, not smiling at all.

There were a few scattered good-byes. Mokrani and his ilk mounted their camels, pointed themselves north, and then they were off. In little more than an hour, there were a distant speck, receding into the horizon.

The French got underway not long after. But Marguerite noticed that Curragh, still riding at the head of the 14th, watched Mokrani’s caravan depart until they could be seen no more.

*********


	5. The Canyon Village

The strange, overcast weather continued throughout that day, spreading across the eastern sky. As the French marched forward, Marguerite could see a dark shadow across the lands before them.

Suddenly, Curragh stopped. He raised one hand.

Captain d'Aubigné signaled a halt and drew up next to the guide.

“What is it?” he demanded. “What?!?”

The Moor pointed due east, talking rapidly in his native tongue. Tristan was quickly summoned; Marguerite hurried to the front of the French column with him. The young couple stood between Curragh’s and d'Aubigné’s camels.

Curragh repeated his monologue. He was pointing at a distant mountain, far, far off on the horizon. “_Dhlk hu!_” he exclaimed. “_Hadha hu wijhatik._”

“He says,” Tristan repeated in awe, “that the mountain yonder is our destination.”

Those words hovered in the still air.

d'Aubigné looked thunderstruck. “Get me the spy-glass,” he ordered.

The company waited while their captain peered across the miles. The lone mountain was tall and jagged, almost a blade of stone rising up from the desert floor.

Marguerite squinted, straining her best to see the remote peak. The rainclouds seemed thickest directly over the mountain. She felt uneasy.

“I don’t understand,” growled d'Aubigné to no-one in particular. “**_That_** is the Yatallu kingdom? What people could possibly survive out here?”

“Sir?” Tristan asked, alarmed at the name ‘_Yatallu_.’

Marguerite also felt a shiver race down her spine. **_The 14th’s mission concerned the Yatallu?_** She remembered the faceless tribe’s attack in the forests, so long ago. She was in no mood to meet those killers again.

d'Aubigné swung on Tristan. “Ask him,” the captain demanded, indicating Curragh. “Ask him if he’s **_sure_** this is it.” Deep suspicion laced the captain’s voice.

Thinking carefully, Tristan asked Curragh, “_'Ant… mtakd? Hadha hu… _er_… al… almakan?_”

The Moor, his face once again expressionless, merely nodded. “_Hadha hu,_” he insisted.

“He’s… certain, sir,” reported the ensign.

“_Hu yawm wahid baeidana,_” added their guide.

“We should be there tomorrow,” Tristan said.

The captain scowled, now looking to the north and south. “Have the men break out the weapons,” he ordered. “We may be heading into a trap.”

Marguerite felt ill.

*********

The skies grew blacker as the Frenchmen made the final leg of their journey. It was almost as if the thick clouds had murdered the daytime. The air grew alarmingly chill, and faint thunder rumbled high above. Glancing up, Marguerite and her companions grew uneasy. It was as if the heavens themselves were displeased.

Then the winds picked up, scattering dust everywhere. Soon the French were forced to light torches, if only to keep track of one another in the fading light.

The distant mountain crept closer and closer. Marguerite hated the look of it; dark, brooding, almost defiant on the barren African landscape. She imagined the jagged peak to be frowning as the French drew nearer.

Throughout the worsening weather, Curragh had ridden on, as if the dust and darkness were a mild irritation.

Suddenly, he waved his torch high in the air, indicating that the French were to follow him to slightly north.

*********

Half a league further, a small canyon opened up within the landscape. It was as if the Almighty had struck the earth with a great sword, tearing open a deep gash.

“_Bsre!_” Curragh shouted over the winds. “_'Udkhul!_” And then the Moor, his servant woman, and their camels climbed down into the canyon’s interior.

The French needed little encouragement. They scampered after, surprised to see how deep and wide the canyon was once they were inside.

The rocky walls sloped down quickly, but Curragh had found a little footpath sturdy enough for the camels. One-by-one, the party descended in single file, holding their torches high.

Marguerite was amazed the moment she had ducked under the lip of the canyon’s wall. Inside, the harsh winds did not follow. The air was calm, cool, inviting.

“Look!” Tristan said, ahead of her.

Marguerite followed his pointing finger. There was thick, green grass on the canyon floor. The young nurse almost disbelieved her own eyes.

Curragh led his companions all the way down the little path, then across the canyon floor. The walls of the canyon widened, and the French were delighted to see small palm trees appear. A forest!

“How is this possible?” Tristan asked in wonder.

Marguerite considered that question. “There must be water here,” she said.

*********

The canyon proved to be at least a league long. The company passed through the forest, delighted by the sound of leaves swishing as they passed. Only Captain d'Aubigné seemed uneasy.

Suddenly, the trees parted, and the 14th company found themselves standing at the edge of a small village, merely a collection of neatly-made mudhuts, all arranged in a wide circle. The circle was cleared of grass and paved with flat, beaten stones.

Marguerite could also spot several water-wells throughout the village, dug deep into the earth. The French soldiers curiously peaked into these wells now.

Strangely, the village was completely deserted. When the French pulled back the animal skins which covered the huts’ doorways, they discovered that the inside of the little domiciles were tiny, recently swept, and contained folded blankets and clean bowls. But no food stores of any kind. It was as if the previous occupants had tidied up the settlement before stepping out for the afternoon.

“_Yjb 'an tajeal 'anfusakum murihatan,_” Curragh announced, already dismounting and tethering his camel to a tree. He gestured about with one hand. “_Sawf naqdi allayl huna._”

Tristan hardly needed to translate this: _The village is abandoned; make yourselves at home_.

“Water!” shouted Lycidas Nesle, who was hauling a bucket up from one of the wells. “There’s fresh water aplenty here!”

His fellow soldiers swarmed about, eagerly reaching for a cool drink.

Soon the men were laughing and unslinging their packs.

*********

Only Captain d'Aubigné was unhappy. He glanced up, noting that the dark mountain loomed over the village. Soon, the sun would set behind the clouds. But he had no doubt that in the morning, the mountain’s mighty shadow would cover the village.

The commander was thinking back to his conversation with Lord-Governor de Farel. The fat man had said: **_Our prisoner described a lush village, underneath a great mountain. And within the mountain? Diamonds._**

Those words echoed in d'Aubigné’s cunning mind now. No doubt the captain was now standing in the Yatallus’ village now. And the dark mountain which loomed to the immediate east? Well, that must be where the diamond mines were to be found.

But why was the village deserted? Did the Yatallu labor in the mines during the day? **_All of them?_** Wouldn’t babies and small children be left behind in the huts?

Ignoring the relieved voices of his men, d'Aubigné fretted. Something was very, very wrong.

*********

The 14th Company made themselves at home, the men quickly dividing into small groups and claiming huts. Supper was prepared over simple campfires, although this time the meal was quick and without any ceremony.

Nighttime arrived. High above, the thick clouds thinned, then lifted completely. Marguerite was delighted when the stars appeared the black velvet sky, happily twinkling down in the weary travelers. Even the crescent moon appeared.

“Post armed guards for a watch,” d'Aubigné ordered Lieutenant de Verville and Tristan. “Five men awake, at all times. No shirking.” Perhaps talking to himself, the captain grumbled, “I don’t like this place.”

“Yessir,” the two junior officers said.

*********

As a married couple, Marguerite and Tristan were entitled to claim one of the littler huts just for themselves. The young woman briefly hoped that, once alone, they might properly enjoy one’s company.

But Tristan was assigned first watch. Disgusted with her rotten luck, the young nurse flopped down onto her bedding. Her exhaustion overwhelmed her, and within seconds, she was fast asleep.

*********

Captain d'Aubigné did not fall asleep at all. At his core, the commander was a coward, deathly afraid that at any minute, something horrible would strike and kill the entire company. The wiry aristocrat tossed and turned in his blanket.

Finally, cursing his circumstances, d'Aubigné rose and exited his hut. It was nearly midnight. The village, forest, and canyon were bathed in ghostly, silvery moonlight.

Immediately, the posted sentries snapped to attention. They were alert, ready for anything.

d'Aubigné ignored their salutes as he strode from the village and into the trees. He needed to relieve himself.

*********

The captain was easily able to navigate through the trees to find his own privacy. Once his immediate needs were satisfied, he paused.

The night air was very cool, and quite pleasant. The trees had the faint aroma of jasmine. There were no insects here. The only sound was the distant snores of the camels. The world seemed at peace.

Wait… there was a soft rustling in the brush, perhaps a few yards away. d'Aubigné tensed.

Then, stepping through the thin trees, the captain spotted a young woman. Curragh’s female companion! The lady was moving carefully, slipping through the foliage with the greatest of care. It occurred to d'Aubigné: he had not the slightest idea what the young woman’s name was.

The woman paused, glanced back toward the village, then opened her robe. The draping cloth fell from her shoulders, revealing a slender, well-muscled body beneath. d'Aubigné’s breath caught. The woman was nude, fully nude from head to toe. In the moonlight, he could see her entire figure. She was a lovely desert creature, water-lean and compact from a lifetime of living under the hot sun.

The woman hung her robe on a tree bough, turning her back to d'Aubigné to do so. The captain stared openly at her exposed buttocks and shoulder blades. Oh, she might be an Arab, but she was lovely indeed!

d'Aubigné felt himself stiffen. How long had it been since he’d had a young woman? The brothel in Saint-Louis did not have such a gorgeous creature as this Arabian beauty! The captain’s imagination began to conjure vivid fantasies.

With a delightfully feminine grace, the woman somehow tied up her long brown hair, then moved on through the forest.

d'Aubigné followed, treading as carefully as he could. The woman did not seem to hear him.

After perhaps fifty paces, the lady pushed through two cypress bushes, revealing a small, shining pond. She waded in up to her calves, then bent over to dip her hands into the water. Soon, she was bathing, lovingly running her small hands over her wet skin. She slowly turned about as she worked.

His breath short and trembling, d'Aubigné leaned forward, greedily watching everything. The young woman’s eyes were closed and her lips held a faint smile, as if she was listening to secret, sweet music. Her hands never paused.

Mesmerized, d'Aubigné lusted over the generous contours of her body. As her hands spread water over her bare shoulders, breasts, stomach, and arms, the captain licked his lips. Her olive skin positively glowed in the moonlight. As droplets of water rolled off her luscious form, she seemed as a goddess of the earth: beautiful, alluring, flawless.

But then, the lady straightened, and looked directly at d'Aubigné. Their eyes locked. Her body was still; she simply stood motionless, gazing at the French captain with an unreadable expression on her face.

d'Aubigné started. _Caught!_ He stepped back clumsily.

“Don’t move, _Monsieur,_” a man’s cold voice said behind him. The point of a blade appeared against the back of d'Aubigné’s neck.

Panicked, the French captain whirled about, anyway. There were maybe ten men facing him now, all holding swords. All swords pointed at his chest.

_Tarnation!_ d'Aubigné thought in despair. Too late, he saw the trap. The young woman had been the lure. While he was ogling her nude beauty, his captors had crept up behind him.

The trees shifted slightly in the wind, and now d'Aubigné could see the faces of some of these men. His jaw dropped open.

“**_Legoux?_**” he exclaimed weakly.

Captain Alain Legoux of the French 3rd Company stood before him now, dressed in a simple desert robe, not unlike d'Aubigné’s own. The sword in his hand and the plumed hat on his head was French Army-issued, however.

Standing beside Legoux was another face d'Aubigné recognized: **_Mokrani_**. Mokrani, who had ridden with the 14th only a day prior! The African merchant’s expression was now cold; his once-cheery eyes regarded the French prisoner with contempt.

Now d'Aubigné swept his gaze over all his captors. Some were clearly of French nationality; others were from Mokrani’s tribe; and still others he could not guess. But all wore the same hostile expression, and all trained a sword straight at d'Aubigné’s heart.

d'Aubigné cleared his throat. “Alain,” he said weakly to Legoux, “what is this? We were once brothers, you and I-“

Captain Legoux ignored him. The man glanced to his right, in the direction of the village.

With a start, d'Aubigné realized that someone from the mudhuts was approaching. He craned his neck.

The swordsmen parted, displaying reverence for the new arrival in the way they bowed their heads. d'Aubigné breath caught.

The newcomer was Curragh. The Moor walked forward, regarding d'Aubigné with cold eyes.

“We have him, Master,” Captain Legoux said.

“Well done, captain,” replied Curragh, his deep voice rippling with authority. His French was clipped, with just the slightest, unplaceable accent. With contempt, he inspected his prisoner.

d'Aubigné swallowed. “Alain,” he said pitifully to Legoux, “please, man, you are French, you must-“

“Silence, dog!” said Curragh coldly. “Legoux is French no longer. He – all of us – **_are Yatallu_**.”

*********


	6. The Nation of Diamonds

“Marguerite!” Tristan hissed.

The young Frenchwoman moaned softly. She was in the deepest of sleeps…

“**_Marguerite!_**” repeated Tristan, urgently. He shook her gently.

The nurse blinked, rousing quickly.

Outside her little hut, she could hear boots scuffling. Men shouting. The clash of blades. Torches whipping through the air.

Immediately, Marguerite’s senses were fine-tuned. “What’s happened?” she asked, worried.

“I don’t know,” Tristan admitted. “Whoever they are, they appeared but a minute ago.”

That was a **_very_** bad sign. The 14th’s sentries should have sounded a general alarm in the event of anything amiss. No alarm meant that all five sentries had been incapacitated **_at the same time_**. The attackers had been swift and cunning.

Marguerite and Tristan fumbled to put their boots on in the darkness. “Do you have your pistol?” the nurse hurriedly asked.

“No, Goddamnit,” cursed Tristan. “I left it with-“

“Never mind,” grunted Marguerite.

Harsh voices were approaching the doorway of their hut.

“Hey,” Marguerite said desperately. “Do you think we can push through the walls?”

Tristan understood her immediately. Dashing out of the hut’s only door would present them to the center of the village, probably right into the attackers’ view. But if they smashed their way out the back wall…

“Worth a try,” the ensign agreed.

Husband and wife put their shoulders to the wall and **_pushed_**. Their boots dug into the dirt floor. Their backs ached.

Suddenly the animal skin over the doorway was ripped back.

“_Mahlaan!_” a harsh voice bellowed. “**_Aistislam!!!_**”

“**_Push!_**” Tristan cried.

Marguerite screwed her eyes shut and set her jaw. Using all the strength she had, she threw herself against the course wall.

As armed men began to charge into the little hut, Marguerite felt the wall sag, then give way. Suddenly, she was falling forward.

With a thud, the young Frenchwoman hit the ground, outside in the cold night air. The breath was momentarily knocked from her lungs. Clumps of dried mud clung to her body and hair.

Behind her, the mudhut cracked, then collapsed completely. Inside, the yowls of surprised men rose up in the night.

“C’mon,” Marguerite spat, springing to her feet, and grabbing at Tristan’s arm.

The husband and wife sprinted for the forest. They heard more men yelling. Heavy footfalls behind them gave pursuit.

Suddenly, Tristan cried out. He had been tackled by a pursuer.

As the French ensign wrestled in the dirt with his assailant, two more men appeared, charging Marguerite. Long knives glistened in their hands. Both men wore bone-white robes which covered their entire bodies, even their faces.

The Frenchwoman’s blood ran cold. She’d seen those robes before: **_Yatallu warriors!_**

The closer Yatallu slashed at Marguerite.

Instinct seized the young woman. She ducked back. As the blade swished past, her little hands shot forward, clamping onto the Yatallu’s wrist. Her fingers clamped down, and she applied pressure, forcing the man to twist his arms.

The warrior yelled in pain, immediately dropping his knife into the grass.

Marguerite’s knee jumped forward, sinking into the Yatallu’s exposed belly. Down he went.

The second warrior sprang, pushing Marguerite onto the ground. Soon the man was on top of her, his knife reaching for her throat.

“Do not struggle,” he hissed, in perfect French.

But the young nurse was too inflamed to notice or care. With a snarl of rage, she shoved the man back, enough to force him to off of her. Then she rolled in the grass, away from her attacker.

“Stop!” the Yatallu yelled.

But it was too late for him. Marguerite’s fingers found the hilt of the discarded knife, and in a second, the deadly blade was an extension of her own hand. As the warrior pounced in her direction, she thrust forward. The little sword cut deep into the Yatallu’s throat, and he crumpled into the earth, gushing blood.

Marguerite released the knife and leapt to her feet. She was just in time to see Tristan’s attacker raise a heavy club, then bring it down on the ensign’s head. Tristan groaned once, then went completely limp.

Six more Yatallu warriors were rushing in from the village. Two were yelling and pointing at Marguerite.

The Frenchwoman hesitated, if only for the blink of an eye. Tristan was captured. Even if, by some miracle, Marguerite could free his unconscious body from his assailant, the oncoming warriors would cut her down. And there would be more attackers behind them.

Her heart pounding with fury and despair, Marguerite turned and raced deeper into the forest.

*********

The Yatallu quickly formed a search party, fanning out among the trees. The moonlight was ample, but under the palm leaves, there was plenty of darkness, making their hunt difficult. They moved carefully, beating the vegetation as they went.

But Marguerite was already long gone. She moved swiftly, zipping between the palm trees, skipping over the light undergrowth and rocks. Within a minute, she was well out of reach.

The nurse finally paused to catch her breath. She strained to listen.

From the village, she could hear more struggles, more shouting. But the commotion was dying down. The Yatallu had planned their attack well; it was likely the entire 14th was captured and under guard.

Marguerite cursed, wondering what she could do.

The canyon was large, but not so huge that she could avoid the search parties forever. Sooner or later, Yatallu scouts would track her down.

She couldn’t escape back across the desert, either. Not on her own. She was trapped.

There was only one option. Somehow, she had to distract the Yatallu and then free her companions. Perhaps if she could rescue Tristan and a few of the men, they could cause enough trouble to convince the Yatallu to release all the others.

It was a foolhardy plan. But there was no other choice.

*********

Wishing she felt braver, Marguerite edged back towards the village, taking care to approach from a different direction. The moon hung directly overhead, and was bright enough to see through the forest. She hoped the Yatallu were distracted.

At the edge of the trees, she paused, peering into the little village. There, most of the 14th were assembled, on their knees, their hands clasped on top of their heads. Surrounding them were perhaps a hundred faceless Yatallu guards, all in the bone-white robes, all gripping swords or ancient flintlock rifles. As Marguerite watched, three more of her companions were dragged from their hut, then deposited with the others. The French soldiers looked terrified.

The young woman scanned the 14th, hopefully looking for her husband. There he was! Across the square, kneeling next to Lieutenant de Verville, was Tristan. He had a bloody welt on his temple and a defiant stare in his eyes.

Marguerite cursed. Tristan was on the other side of the village; there was no way to sneak in and rescue him, not from her current position. She bit her lip, wondering if she dared to circle around.

As she was contemplating, Hylas Pug, looking both terrified and furious, suddenly started yelling at the nearest Yatallu: “You can’t keep us like this! We’re Royal French soldiers, we are! Our commanders will hunt down you scum for this outrage!”

The men neared Pug nodded, drawing courage from his defiance. Cries of, “That’s right!”, “_Viva la France!_”, and “You’ll pay!” rose up.

A Yatallu guard kicked at Pug, knocking the big man to the ground.

And then twenty men of the 14th rose as one, all rushing their captors. They swarmed over the immediate guards, clawing the weapons from their hands.

But more Yatallu rushed in, shouting strange cries and firing muskets in the air. The oppressors dove into the soldiers, swinging heavy clubs. The captured French recoiled as they were beaten down by savage blows.

As quickly as it had flared up, Pug’s rebellion was put out. The Yatallu glared at their prisoners.

And then, the invaders straightened, coming to attention. They turned to face a tall figure, stepping out into the village square, flanked by a number of other Yatallu bodyguards. A fearful silence fell over the enemy.

Marguerite’s breath caught short; the tall figure was Curragh. **_Curragh!_** The Moorish guide!

There was no doubt that Curragh was the Yatallu commander. The white-robed warriors bowed their heads to him in reverence. He moved slowly, purposefully, his head high and his gaze penetrating. The tall man’s lips sneered as he looked over his prisoners.

To the Moor’s right was his mysterious Arabian woman. Her beautiful face was no longer hidden by a veil, and she calmly gazed about the village, smiling in a faint but sinister way. To Curragh’s left was another familiar face. Mokrani, now dressed in the bone-white robes of a Yatallu warrior, save with the hood down, moved carefully beside his commander. Marguerite almost didn’t recognize him; in the desert, Mokrani always wore a kind face. Now his eyes were drawn and cold. He wore no smile.

In dismay, Marguerite saw the depth of the trap. Curragh, the Yatallu commander, had planted himself as the 14th’s guide. Then, once that position had been secured, he had arranged for his agents, posing as African merchants, to tag along with the French for most of the journey. The Africans had pretended to be servile and friendly, but all along they were carefully watching their French hosts, noting the command structure and how the French soldiers functioned as a unit. When the time came to incapacitate the 14th, Curragh and his men had been well-prepared.

Except… How had the Yatallu taken the village so quickly? Why hadn’t the 14th’s posted sentries alerted their comrades?

Curragh turned to Mokrani, and the two conversed in hushed tones. The Yatallu commander gestured to the captured French, clearly asking for a head count.

At the moment, Tristan stood. Immediately, four Yatallu guards drew muskets, training them on the brave ensign’s head. Marguerite silently gasped in fear.

“Sir,” Tristan said loudly, addressing Mokrani. “As an officer of the French Royal Army, I demand you release these men. We have caused you no offense, and we merely-“

“You have caused me no offense?”

It was Curragh who had spoken. The Moor’s eyes were blazing as he glared at his defiant prisoner.

Inwardly, Marguerite groaned. Curragh spoke French? Oh, his deception had been well-planned, indeed. Furious, the beautiful Frenchwoman cursed the fates.

“You have caused me no offense, you say?” repeated Curragh, his deep voice trembling slightly. “How can you be so certain, boy?”

Tristan gestured to the kneeling Frenchmen. “Sir, I implore you. There is nothing these men have done against you or your people. In the name of God, please… Please let us go.”

The towering Moor clenched the hand that was not caressing his pouch. His dark eyes turned skyward.

“Ten years ago,” Curragh said, his voice becoming softer, “I was a mere spice trader, with a profitable business in Tlemcen. Those… Those were happy days. But war came when the Ottoman Turks decided to feud with Morocco. My family and I were forced to flee to the south, down the African coast.

“As we entered the grasslands,” he continued, “we were captured by another tribe. I never learned the _kafirs_’ names. They seized us without regard and we were marched for days, days without food or water. Those brutes savagely beat my young daughters with clubs. I was helpless.”

Curragh closed his eyes. “Finally, we were taken to your Saint-Louis, and sold. French scum stripped us of all clothes and put chains on our ankles. And there were hundreds of other slaves there with us. **_Hundreds!_** All families, all like ours, all torn apart and reduced to the most abject misery.

“Shortly after our arrival, I learned that my beloved wife had been put aboard a slave ship and sent to America. I learned of this after she was long, long gone. In despair, I tried to protect my little girls. I begged my French guards, offered them anything – **_anything_**. I would have happily been their humble slave, if only it meant my beautiful daughters could remain in my protection.

“But the French scum merely laughed at my desperate pleas. My little girls, they… they were put aboard separate ships. I can still see the face of my littlest, Bahja, as she was led away. Oh, she was so terrified. She was only four…”

Curragh’s voice caught, and his dark face twisted.

The night was deathly quiet as the Yatallu commander seethed. Marguerite could hear his tortured breathing even from her distant vantage.

The Moor’s eyes flew open, and he glared at Tristan with a pure, venous hatred. A single tear rolled down one cheek.

“After my family was gone, oh, I nearly went mad,” the Yatallu commander rasped. “**_That night_**, I sold my soul to Idlis, the Arabian devil himself. To the Dark Lord, I made a solemn pact: If he would only free me, I would find a way to reap the souls of all wicked Frenchmen in Africa. I would deliver unto Him all of their lives.

“And the Dark One heard my prayers. In the dead of night, He caused my French guards to fall asleep at their posts. I strangled those men with my bare hands, stole their jailer’s keys, then fled into the night.”

Curragh grinned, a bitter, haunted expression.

“Right away, the French pursued me. Vengeful devils! So never, ever tell me, sir, that the French are virtous people. I know better.

“While running for my life, I heard whispers of the Nation of Diamonds, and immediately, I knew why Idlis spared my life. And under His guidance, I crossed the desert. I found the mountain you see yonder. And within the mountain, I found… these.”

And as he was speaking, Curragh opened his little pouch. Now his thin fingers dipped inside, and he drew out something tiny just shimmering with a glittering light.

A diamond.

Although the precious gem was barely the size of a pebble, it glittered very brightly in the eerie moonlight. It was as if the Moor held a miniature star in between his fingertips. He held it up, allowing the French prisoners to eye it with suspicion.

*********

Marguerite was peering at the tiny stone, when she heard a slight rustling, perhaps ten paces behind her. She glanced back.

Four Yatallu warriors were gliding through the forest, creeping up on her. They were not twenty feet away. Their clubs were raised.

Instantly, the young Frenchwoman knew her best plans lay in ashes. There would be no sneaking about the forest, not now. The Yatallu scouts were already rushing her, determined not to permit her to escape. The lead warrior was upon her, his club swinging straight down.

Then, something remarkable happened. Marguerite’s thoughts almost winked out as her instincts seized control. It was as if she merely needed trust in her reflexes to know what to do.

She whipped about to face her attackers, planting her boots firmly in the earth. At the same time, Marguerite’s hands shot forward. With perfect timing, she grabbed the lead warrior’s club, just above his own hands. Then, she twisted her body, throwing her weight against the man’s momentum.

The Yatallu was caught off-guard. He careened away, smashing into a palm tree.

Now Marguerite had the man’s weapon, and her body was still in motion. Spinning like a dancer, she effortlessly brought her club upwards, and it connected squarely with the jaw of the second Yatallu. There was the sickening sound of crunching bone, and the man crumpled into a useless heap.

The Frenchwoman didn’t notice. She whirled about again, now hurling the club with all her might. The weapon shot through the trees like a spear, smashing into the face of the third Yatallu. This man toppled backwards, crashing into the underbrush.

The last warrior halted, realizing that he was now facing Marguerite alone. The Frenchwoman whirled to face him, her chest heaving, her eyes wild. She was unarmed, but her clawed hands looked like a tigress’ paws.

The pause in combat lasted less than a heartbeat. With a bloodcurdling yell, the warrior charged, holding his club high.

Marguerite dropped into a deep crouch, landing on her hands, shifting her hips forward. Her boot shot out in a perfect kick, and she felt her heel smash into her assailant’s knee. The Yatallu screamed as he tottered forward. His club went flying into the dark forest.

The Frenchwoman leapt to her feet, quickly checking to make sure all four warriors were no longer a danger.

But the little battle had caused quite the commotion. Now, twenty Yatallu were swarming towards her from the village, their swords drawn.

Marguerite turned to flee.

But the first Yatallu tracker she had disarmed was back, grabbing at Marguerite’s travel robes with strong hands. Furious, Marguerite whirled to smash her elbow into his nose. The man released her, crying out.

And yet the delay had been long enough. Suddenly, Yatallu warriors were everywhere. Hands were closing in all around. The beautiful young woman cursed, her anger surging, and she struck out with fists. Two Yatallu were knocked unconscious under her assault, and she managed to snatch the sword of a third.

But the enemy was simply too numerous. In seconds, they had Marguerite completely surrounded. She slashed at him with her captured blade, but it was no use. Three men seized her sword arm, two more grabbed her other arm. And then someone behind her struck her in the back of the head, **_hard_**.

Stunned, Marguerite reeled. Her vision swam. She dropped her weapon. The world spun about her. Her limbs went nearly limp as searing pain racked her body.

As the Frenchwoman gasped, her arms were pulled behind her back. Another powerful grip closed in on her throat, squeezing off her air. A third fist slugged her in the stomach.

Marguerite wheezed, knowing it was all over. Helpless rage consumed her.

*********

The Yatallu marched the young woman back into the village, at least five men holding her in firm captivity. The dismayed soldiers of the 14th watched as she was paraded before them, then finally shoved onto her knees in the dirt.

Raging inside, Marguerite hissed for breath. Her body was coated in sweat, her hair was wild and in complete disarray, her knuckles bruised from fighting. She glared about, wanting only to tear every last Yatallu limb-from-limb.

“Well now,” a deep, mocking voice said.

It was Curragh. The Moor was now looming over her, twirling his diamond between two fingertips.

Marguerite’s rage got the better of her. “**_You!_**” she snarled, and tried to climb to her feet. Immediately, her guards clamped strong hands onto her shoulders, holding the beautiful French woman down.

The Yatallu commander loomed over Marguerite, his thin shadow falling over her crouched figure. “I thought there was a beautiful face missing from among our guests,” he remarked.

Marguerite glared up at the Moor. “You hideous swine,” she hissed, still struggling against her captors. “The French Royal Army will **_hunt you down_** for this outrage to King Louis.”

“I’m sure,” smirked Curragh. His wicked smile faded. “Tell me something, girl. Where did you learn to fight?”

“Go to Hades,” growled the Frenchwoman.

“You bested four of my best men with bare hands,” Curragh pressed. “I’ll ask you again: **_Where did you learn to fight?_**”

In truth, Marguerite had no idea from where her combat skills came. When the warriors had attacked, her body had merely reacted. There had been little thought on her part.

The Yatallu commander crouched, bringing his face close to Marguerite’s. “Tell me,” he demanded.

A thousand vile insults flitted through Marguerite’s mind. Although she longed to fling any of them at the wicked Moor, she forced herself to stay her tongue.

“Careful, Master,” the Arabian woman warned. “This one… she is not to be trifled with.”

Curragh pursed his lips, studying Marguerite’s enraged face closely. “Yes. Yes, you are correct,” he mused.

He rose to his full height. “Stand her up,” he ordered the Yatallu guards.

Marguerite was forcibly hoisted onto her feet. Two firm hands remained clamped onto each of her arms, and she felt a sword tip placed against the back of her neck.

Curragh examined the tiny, sparkling gemstone still between his fingers. “Tell me, Madame,” he said, “why do you think the legends use the term the ‘**_Nation_** of Diamonds?’ Nations are comprised of people, not riches.”

Marguerite glared at him.

“A thousand years ago,” the Moor said, pointing the diamond at his beautiful young prisoner, “the diamonds were created by the Wicked Ones, the evil spirits that nearly overran Africa in the Old Wars. Long ago.”

Curragh held the diamond closer to Marguerite. With his free hand, he gently caressed her lower jaw.

The Frenchwoman nearly bit him. _Patience, Marguerite,_ she implored herself. _Wait until his guard is down, then strike…_

The Yatallu commander continued: “Each diamond, you see, is a soul-trapper. When one person wields a diamond against another, the victim finds that their soul is sucked from their body. They then fall into the Black Sleep, a terrible spell where they have no will, no independent thoughts of their own. They become the slave of whomever possesses their diamond. And they are enslaved forever.”

The tiny diamond began to shine with a light of its own.

“What do you think _Yatallu_ means in the Old Tongue?” Curragh asked, his voice becoming soft and alluring. “It means _Soulless Ones_. The Yatallu **_are_** the Nation of Diamonds. When a person becomes entranced by one of the diamonds, they become Yatallu. They join the ranks of those who exist only to serve their master. And I am that Master. Master of the Nation of Diamonds. Soon, you will be joining them.”

Marguerite shifted on her feet, anger still burning within her breast. She didn’t believe Curragh for a second, but there was a disquieting certainty in his voice. The Moor’s eyes bore into her.

“Struggle all you want, _Madame_,” the Yatallu commander told her. “Already, the diamond has gone to work on you. In moments, you will only want to follow and obey whatever command I give you.”

“You **_are_** mad,” Marguerite snapped.

“Oh, you think so?” asked Curragh. “Look upon your diamond, then. Defy the magic, if you can. Perhaps your strong will can save you, eh?”

From the corner of her eye, Marguerite could see Tristan’s lean figure. He was very still, and Marguerite knew her husband was watching her anxiously.

A sudden desire to turn her head, to see the face of her husband filled the Frenchwoman. She couldn’t say where this fear came from. She only knew she longed for him in that moment.

But for a mysterious reason, Marguerite couldn’t turn her head. The diamond in Curragh’s fingers was glowing brightly now. Marguerite’s eyes were drawn to the center of this light. She couldn’t look away.

“You relax,” Curragh’s voice said. “You surrender. Your emotions fade. Your body slips from your control. Your thoughts tumble into sleep. Soon, you will have no thoughts but what I give you. Do you feel it? You are already entering the Black Sleep.”

_Nonsense_, Marguerite thought tartly.

And yet… her feet felt strangely leaden. On their own, her fists unclenched.

“I have used the diamonds on hundreds of others,” Curragh told her, his voice beginning to float within Marguerite’s mind. “They tell me that submitting to the Black Sleep is a pleasant sensation. Like happily laying down one’s head after a long, exhausting journey. Soon you will want to close your eyes. You will want only to listen to the sound of my voice. You will want to sleep. Sleep…”

“Marguerite!” Tristan shouted.

A Yatallu warrior rushed forward, kicking the young ensign square in the stomach. From the edge of her vision, Marguerite could see her husband double over in pain.

She wanted to rush to him, to cradle his head in her arms, to slaughter any man foolish enough to stand in her way. How Marguerite longed to snatch up Tristan and whisk him far, far away! Wild fantasies of escape flitted in her head.

But the beautiful young Frenchwoman was having trouble concentrating. Something was clouding her thoughts. An instant after Tristan was struck, Marguerite forgot about him. Her memories were draining from her mind. Her anger, once fiery and unquenchable, was now dissolving. She felt uncomfortable, and perhaps a bit confused.

“Your body feels heavy,” observed Curragh. “Your arms, your legs… they no longer obey you. You gaze deeper into the light, and you feel your worries lift like mist from a lake. You are relaxing, _Madame_, you are finding it easier and easier to allow your body to relax even more.”

Marguerite went to open her mouth, to insult the man or to protest. Strangely, her jaw did not move. She felt her lips part, slightly. Her breathing was slow. She felt strangely calm.

“Yesss…” the Moor whispered, his voice cutting deeper into Marguerite’s thoughts. His hand slipped off her jaw, down her thin neck, and came to rest on her collarbone. His touch felt soothing, like the softest of cloths. “You are sleepy, so sleepy. Soon your eyes will close, and you will drift off into a thoughtless nothing. It sounds wonderful, no?”

The diamond glowed brighter.

Marguerite blinked once. Her eyelids weighed a ton each. She hadn’t noticed that her Yatallu guards had released her arms. Feeling almost carefree now, she lost the few remaining thoughts wandering about in her head. She **_did_** feel sleepy.

Tristan called out to her, but his voice sounded distant and unimportant. Marguerite disregarded him immediately. Her body felt warm and pleasant, as if she were immersed in a cleansing bath.

“And now,” Curragh’s commanding voice said in her mind, “I will touch you, _Madame_, and you will fall into a deep, deep sleep. The Black Sleep. You will gladly surrender your mind and become a slave to the diamond for the rest of your life. Surrender… now.”

And then, Marguerite felt two fingers tap her forehead, ever so gently.

Instantly, an overpowering desire to slumber claimed the young Frenchwoman. She sighed, allowed her eyes to close, and enjoyed a feeling of blissful detachment. The world completely faded.

Distantly, she sensed Curragh laying his warm hand upon her shoulder. “And now, _Madame_,” his voice said within her thoughts, “you will find that whatever command I give you will go straight into your mind, where it **_must_** be obeyed. You are now Yatallu, and your **_only wish_** is to follow and obey me. I am your master now. I am your master forever.”

More commands followed. Marguerite resisted none of them. Curragh’s voice stripped away her memories, her hopes, her dreams, all that made her the person who she was. Soon, she only knew obedience and love for the man who commanded her.

She was in the power of the Black Sleep. She was enslaved.

*********

After perhaps a lifetime, Marguerite was aware of fingertips touching her forehead, once again. Suddenly, she was aware of her body, of the cool night air, of the sounds of forest. She blinked, then opened her eyes.

She was still standing before Curragh, who looked at her with curious eyes. The Yatallu warriors hovered nearby. And the captured soldiers of the 14th were still kneeling on the ground, still guarded carefully by more warriors. Marguerite’s companions looked up at her in fear and apprehension.

As she watched, Curragh opened the little pouch around his neck. The diamond in his fingers was now shining brightly with its own intense light. Marguerite watched as he popped the diamond into the pouch, then pulled it closed.

“How do you feel?” the Moor asked her evenly.

Marguerite’s mouth was dry; she swallowed.

“Um…” she said, momentarily confused. Her memory was hazy. Where was she?

Before Marguerite could piece things together, Curragh passed a hand before her face. “You feel wonderful,” he informed her.

The Frenchwoman broke into a smile. “I feel wonderful,” she exclaimed.

“What do you remember?” Curragh asked.

“I…”

Again, the Moor waved his hand. “You remember nothing,” he told her.

The thoughts in Marguerite’s head vanished. She forgot her life; her childhood, her time in the Army, her love for France, for God, even for dear Tristan. She even forgot her own name. Her memory was an absolute blank.

“I…” the poor woman repeated, perplexed.

Now the dark man touched her on the forehead. “You are Marguerite, my willing slave,” he told her. “You remember your previous life, yet you care nothing for your comrades.”

Memories sprung up in the hypnotized woman’s mind. She straightened, allowing herself to adopt a look of casual distain as she regarded the Yatallu’s prisoners.

“Ha!” crowed Curragh. “You see, French? Her mind is entirely in my control. She is Yatallu now. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

“Yes Master,” replied Marguerite.

Her cold gaze rolled over Tristan. The young ensign looked at his bride in horror and dismay.

But Marguerite could not recall the love she once felt for Tristan. His expression, and even his life, meant nothing to her. Her once-vibrant heart was frozen.

“You will all soon know the Black Sleep,” Curragh called out to the horrified Frenchmen, already picking out more diamonds from his neck-pouch. He laughed cruelly. “And you will all make fine additions to the Yatallu.”

“Marguerite!” Tristan could not help crying out. “Marguerite, darling, please!”

His bride ignored him.

“Tell me,” Curragh asked Marguerite, “how would you proceed to enslave your former friends?”

Marguerite’s thoughts went blank for a moment as her master’s demand compelled her to obey.

“I would entrance the company starting with the captain,” she replied levelly. “And then the lieutenant, and then the ensign. Work down the chain of command. Then use the officers to help bewitch the lower ranks.”

Curragh grinned broadly. “So be it,” he agreed.

The Moor made a small gesture, and immediately four of his Yatallu henchmen departed. They quickly reappeared, now with Captain d'Aubigné as their prisoner. The captain’s hands were bound before him. He looked positively terrified.

“Step up, captain,” drawled Curragh. He handed a twinkling diamond to Marguerite. “It is time the you join the Nation.”

d'Aubigné’s face went ashen. “Wait a minute, wait a minute!” he sputtered. “Curragh… You said that if I helped you take the village, you wouldn’t use one of those things on me! **_You wouldn’t use one of those things on me!!!_**”

“I lied,” the Moor sneered. He gestured to the guards. “Bring him!”

“**_No, no!!!_**” screamed d'Aubigné.

The Yatallu seized the captain by the arms and despite his panicked kicking, dragged him to Marguerite. A burly warrior gripped d'Aubigné by the back of the head, forcing his face toward the young Frenchwoman.

“My dear,” Curragh said to Marguerite, “if you would…?”

“Of course, Master,” Marguerite replied. She stepped toward d'Aubigné, raising the diamond to his frightened eyes. Somehow, her mind filled with the instructions she would say to the captain, the words which would lull him into the Black Sleep.

The diamond began to glow.

*********


	7. Pleasure and then Strategy

** _Two weeks later…_ **

At the northern base of the Yatallu mountain, there was a great crack in the earth. This gash became a cave, one that ran deep into the mountain’s roots, and then even deeper. After several hundred feet, the black walls of the cavern began to sparkle. These tiny points of captured light were the black diamonds of the mountain.

Now, deep under the earth, a small army of hypnotized laborers chipped away at the rocks, carefully gathering baskets of diamonds for their master. Over the years, Curragh had visited nearby villages and caravans, and by using the diamonds, he had systematically captured the minds of those he encountered. Now those poor, enslaved souls toiled day and night. Their only desire was to increase their master’s supply of the deadly gems.

Outside the mine entrance was a plain but sturdy hut, built to withstand the sandstorms of the desert. This lone cottage was Curragh’s home, and the capital of the Nation of Diamonds. Four brainwashed Yatallu guards stood outside at attention whenever their master was inside.

The interior of the hut was modest. One side of the single room was dedicated to a large bedding mattress, covered in white cotton. The other side possessed a large table, with a small stove and basin off to one side. A modest collection of pots and spoons were available from a neatly-organized shelf in the corner.

The little room was lit by burning candles, some placed on the table, others on the shelf that ran high on the wall. The candlelight danced and flickered.

Standing alone in the room was Marguerite. She was perfectly still, her eyes closed, her arms limp at her sides. Her beautiful face was relaxed and blank. She wore a simple African wraparound robe, plain in color, which exposed her arms and shoulders. Her feet were bare.

The door of the hut opened, and Curragh entered, his Arabian mistress behind him. The Moor, dressed in a simple peasant clothes, wore an expression of confidence. He gestured that the door be closed, and the Arabian woman obeyed.

“There she is,” gloated Curragh, moving to stand before the immobile Marguerite. He quickly slipped off the pouch from around his neck; it was much larger now. The Moor carefully tossed the little bag onto his table.

On the night Curragh’s trap had been sprung, it had taken a mere hour to put all of the 14th company under the Black Sleep. Once enslaved by the deadly gems, a soldier would gladly use another diamond to enslave his brother, allowing the process to proceed rapidly.

Curragh, with his flair for cruelty, had forced Marguerite to bewitch Tristan. The ensign had struggled valiantly… but to no avail. He was Yatallu now.

Once the entire company was entranced, their glowing diamonds were carefully collected, then added to Curragh’s pouch. As long as Curragh possessed it, he remained the Lord and Master of all the Yatallu.

The Moor now turned to the sleeping Frenchwoman. With obvious enjoyment, his long fingers began unwrapping her robe.

“Your newest warriors have nearly completed their new training, Master,” the Arabian woman said. “The French soldiers are excellent stock, as they are already comfortable with many weapons. And they are used to obeying the orders of a superior.”

“Indeed,” Curragh marveled as he loosened Marguerite’s tunic. He sighed. “If only I could lure French soldiers more out of Saint-Louis. French soldiers make for wonderful fodder. But Africans also make for ruthless footsoldiers, once possessed by the Black Sleep.” He shrugged. “I will make due with the men that my Master Idlis has provided.”

The robe fell away from Marguerite’s body, revealing her to be nude beneath. The orange candlelight made her shapely figure positively glow with a radiant beauty.

Curragh smiled again, cupping the Frenchwoman’s breasts in appreciation. “What do you think of my latest prize?” he said proudly.

The Arabian woman frowned lightly. “This Marguerite is lovely,” she allowed. “But Master-“

“I know, I know,” growled the Moor. “Your witch’s sight detects the hand of fate protecting her.” He scowled. “You have told me many times.”

The other woman straightened. “You would be wise to heed my council, Master.”

Curragh slid his appreciative hands down Marguerite’s smooth sides. “**_Really_**, woman,” he snarled to the Arabian. “When I met you, you were the most powerful witch-doctor in North Africa. You still are. But I tricked you and put you under the Black Sleep because I desired to use your magic in my Great Quest. And you have served me well.”

“Thank you, Master,” the Arabian witch said, bowing her head.

“It was your powers that foresaw the future,” Curragh continued lazily, now circling Marguerite. “You helped me capture Mokrani and his caravan. And then you knew where we could intercept Captain d'Aubigné and his company. Your powers of prophesy have helped me grow the Nation of Diamonds beyond what I could have hoped.”

“But do not forget your place, witch,” the Moor said coldly. Now standing directly behind his French slave, his hands began fondling her exposed buttocks. “You may be a treasure of information, but you are still nothing but a slave. I control your mind as completely as any other of the Yatallu. It is not your place to lecture me on anything.”

The Arabian woman cast her eyes to the floor. “Of course, Master.”

Curragh leaned forward, smelling Marguerite’s sandy blonde hair. He sighed in contentment, wrapping his fingers around her shoulders, and then pulled the sleeping Frenchwoman towards his body.

“I think that you are jealous of my new toy,” he remarked.

“Jealous, Master?” said the witch.

“You have also been my favorite pleasure-slave,” leered Curragh. “I’ve enjoyed fucking you more than any other woman whom I’ve possessed. But even you must admit… this Marguerite had a body far more luscious than yours.”

The ends of the Arabian woman’s mouth turned down. “Marguerite is beautiful in form,” she admitted.

“You’re jealous,” accused Curragh.

The Moor moved to stand before Marguerite once more, placing two fingertips on her forehead. “You will awaken, my child,” he commanded.

Immediately, Marguerite’s eyes fluttered open. She glanced about her, momentarily confused.

“Look at me,” demanded Curragh.

Marguerite looked up into his eyes, and was immediately entranced.

“When I clap my hands,” the Moor said, “you will realize that you have an irresistible lust for women’s bodies. You **_must_** seduce my Arabian companion here. You must drive her **_wild_** with passion.”

“Master,” the Arabian witch said, dread in her voice.

Curragh struck his hands together, once.

Instantly, Marguerite felt strange. Her senses were hers again to command, but her will felt weak. She almost thought that she must be in a powerful dream.

Befuddled, the French woman looked about, her eyes coming to rest on the Arabian woman across the room.

A sinful desire welled up in Marguerite’s bosom. The Arabian was beautiful, so beautiful. How had Marguerite never noticed her before? The other woman’s body was thin and water-lean, shaped by many hard years in the desert. Her olive skin shone softly in the flickering candlelight.

Moreover, the woman’s large, brown eyes were alluring. Marguerite smiled to herself, envious of those sensuous eyes. The Arabian’s face was lean, but perfectly shaped, with smooth cheeks, a thin nose, and large lips. Her long black hair draped over one shoulder, nicely complimenting her peasant’s robe.

“Mmm,” Marguerite said, already moving to the other woman.

The French slave couldn’t stop herself. Suddenly, she had to put her hands on this delicate creature, to kiss her, to slip her hands underneath that simple clothing. Marguerite wanted to press herself against this woman, to taste her, to make her moan with pleasure.

“Master,” the Arabian pleaded as the nude Marguerite moved to snuggle against her. The French woman pressed her lips forward, seeking to plant soft kisses on the witch’s neck.

“You can’t resist Marguerite,” Curragh told the witch, and this statement was both an observation and a command. The Moor moved to sit in a chair, enjoying the show.

Marguerite was aroused. Why this was so, she could not say, but as her lips played on the Arabian’s slender neck, she could feel herself becoming moist. She pressed harder against the other woman, feeling the Arabian breasts press against her under the simple robe. The witch’s nipples were becoming erect.

“Ohhh…” sighed the witch, her resolve weakening.

Growing bolder, Marguerite pulled at the robe. She pressed harder, letting her kisses wander up the Arabian’s face. Suddenly lips were meeting lips. The Arabian’s mouth tasted faintly of mint, as if she’d enjoyed a sweet before entering the hut.

As the witch melted under Marguerite’s sexual powers, the Frenchwoman opened the robe, and was delighted to feel naked skin underneath the thin cloth. Her hands gingerly touched the Arabian’s muscles, then slipped around her waist. The two women embraced more tightly.

The robe fluttered off the Arabian’s narrow shoulders. Both women were naked.

And now, the ladies were kissing passionately, deeply, without abandon. Curragh had been right; neither woman could resist the other.

Suddenly Marguerite wanted to feel inside her new lover.

“Come,” she demanded, breaking the kiss for barely a second.

And then she pulled the Arabian woman to the bedding, almost throwing the witch onto the mattress when they arrived there.

Now breathing in lusty gasps, the Arabian rolled over onto her back, wild lust in her face.

Marguerite knelt, gently prying apart the other woman’s legs. Strange, but the sight of the glistening vagina excited her. Moving to lie on top of her companion, Marguerite moved to both kiss and slip her fingers inside the other woman at the same time.

Their lips made contact at the same time Marguerite’s fingertips sampled the Arabian’s wetness. The witch moaned and bucked as she was stimulated so completely on both ends of her body. As Marguerite kissed her, she could feel the woman surrender to her tender embrace.

Putting her own weight entirely onto one arm, Marguerite played with the witch’s vagina with her other hand. She had never been with another woman before, and yet she knew **_exactly_** what to do. Her fingers danced, coaxing the Arabian closer and closer to climax. The kissing grew deeper.

It was as if Marguerite held amazing power in her hand. With every flick of her fingers, she could feel the Arabian woman’s breath grow more passionate, her heart beat faster, her body tremble more. The witch started moaning in strange, babbling sounds, going on as if she couldn’t stop. This power that Marguerite possessed amazed her.

It also made her crazier with lust.

The Frenchwoman suddenly pressed **_hard_** deep inside the Arabian.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh…!” the woman cried out, unable to keep kissing. She wildly grabbed at the mattress. Her body was breaking out in a thin layer of sweat; truly impressive in the deep desert.

Marguerite’s mouth attacked the witch’s long neck again. Now, the kisses were fast and powerful.

“Ohhhhhh ohhhhhhhhh ohhhhhhh ohhhhhhhh!!!” the Arabian shrieked, her legs trembling. Her hips bucked, and then her head arched backwards. Marguerite felt a warm, gooey liquid wash over her fingertips.

The witch had been unable to resist Marguerite. Now tasting carnal pleasure, she yelled and kicked without control over her own body.

Marguerite grinned, pressing harder.

Suddenly strong hands seized her hips, pulling her upwards. Curragh, unable to restrain himself, was kneeling behind her and propelling her towards his waiting cock. The Master was nude, and fully erect.

Scrambling, Marguerite planted her knees onto the bedding, then spread her legs and arched her back. Without thinking, she was presenting her own waiting vagina to her man, knowing exactly what he wanted. She clawed the mattress, still kissing the Arabian woman.

Curragh wasted no time. His tip sank into Marguerite’s moistness, and it felt glorious. The Frenchwoman sighed, already pushing her hips back for more penetration.

Now the Moor was dipping in and out, in and out, in and out. His motion was rapidly driving Marguerite insane. She couldn’t think. She hung on, allowing her body to automatically respond.

Beneath her, the Arabian woman was still reeling under the warm spell of her own orgasm. But the witch still felt Marguerite bearing down on her. With her eyes closed, the Arabian woman reached up, clasped Marguerite on both cheeks, and drew their lips together.

Now Marguerite was both kissing and riding an erect penis at the same time. Curragh plunged into her deeply now, thrusting with powerful strokes. Marguerite had to cling to her Arabian lover with both hands to keep their lips together. The pleasure was overwhelming.

As she felt the cock thunder deeper than deeper than yet deeper still within her, Marguerite’s body began to tremble. An orgasm was swelling within her. Beyond what mere mortals experience, this orgasm was reaching to all corners of her body. Her fingers and toes began to tingle with excitement. Even in mid-kiss, Marguerite started to grunt and whimper in delight.

And then Curragh’s penis shook like a horse kicking. Marguerite heard the Moor’s deep voice groan, and she knew by his slowed motion that he was climaxing.

And she could hold out no longer. Marguerite felt her own body rock with delight. And then, like an enormous thunderclap splitting the sky, she came.

Oh, did she cum! Marguerite was not a woman who lived for the pleasure of the flesh. She had taken exactly two lovers in life: A poor but handsome boy named Phillipe back in Narbonne, and then Tristan. She’d bedded both men, of course, but not often and in Tristan’s case, not as often as she would have liked. When she had climaxed with her other lovers, she had always sensed there was still something more to be had in a sexual adventure.

Well, now as her body was responding to Curragh’s powerful cock, Marguerite was blasted into a universe of pleasure she’d never known before. Her mind, entranced as it was, reeled into wave after wave after wave of unmeasurable bliss. Her muscles wailed in supreme happiness. Her enslaved spirit sang.

Marguerite couldn’t move. Her entire body was tense, paralyzed by this wonderous orgasm. She felt the Arabian woman’s mouth still kissing her own and Curragh’s cock still pushing inside her. But her own muscles seemed to be locked up by the sheer chemical joy radiating from her vagina.

And then…

Then Curragh half-laughed, half-moaned. He released Marguerite and flopped down onto the mattress.

As soon as his penis disappeared, it was as if Marguerite regained the use of her own body. She sang a wordless cry of joy, ending with one last, long kiss on her Arabian lover’s lips.

Then Marguerite collapsed. Her body simply gave out. Her eyes closed, and she tumbled into a deep, dreamless sleep.

*********

Curragh was so delighted with Marguerite’s skills as a lover that he did not permit her to leave the bedding, nor wear clothes. The entranced Frenchwoman remained in the hut as his devoted sex slave, waiting for her master and his penis to revisit her. Which he did often.

But between the sex, the Moor was busy. His Yatallu legion was swelled to almost five hundred men, now that the 14th company had been folded into the ranks. The new French soldiers were all systematically brainwashed, and they remembered nothing of their time in Louis XIV’s service. Now they lived only for their new master’s slightest command.

Curragh reformed his little army, carefully determining who was best suited for which role. Using the supplies from the 14th’s caravan, he conducted musket drills. This allowed him to identify the best sharpshooters, and he pooled those men together into a tight, elite squad. These men were named the Ya’Zhoul and given the best weapons.

Other men were assigned to general infantry duty, or as pikemen, or some as simple laborers. Men who were exceptional as riders were noted, but not assigned saddles. The current Yatallu had only a handful of camels, and none of these beasts were suitable as cavalry animals. If there was an opportunity to steal horses later, perhaps the riders could be put to better use.

The only thing Curragh left intact was his victims’ original command structures. Captains d'Aubigné and Legoux plus Mokrani remained as top officers. The French lieutenants made up the second tier of command.

*********

After a week of organizing and reviewing his troops, Curragh grew impatient. His scouts were reporting that slave production out of Saint-Louis was increasing, despite the Yatallu’s best efforts. Worse, spies sent word that another three hundred French troops had arrived from Europe. The French and their allies were strengthening their grip on Africa, and bleeding it dry.

“Summon the commanders,” the Moor growled when the latest dispatches came in.

*********

Within the hour, the top Yatallu officers appeared at Curragh’s hut, filing in to stand around their master’s table. Marguerite and the Arabian witch lay on the bedding, both women completely nude. The ladies regarded the officers with mild curiosity, their minds in a haze.

The last officer into the little hut was Tristan. The Ensign glanced down at the pleasure-women, and for a moment, Marguerite and Tristan locked gazes. But neither remembered the other, and their exchange was both brief and disinterested.

Curragh, wearing only a light robe and his neck-pouch, leaned over the table. A hand-drawn map of Africa lay there, compete with the Yatallu mountain, Saint-Louis, and the lands in between. Those tribes who had allied with the French were marked with angry, red ink.

“You are all dedicated Yatallu warriors, dedicated to killing every last French soldier in Africa,” Curragh told them, using his hypnotic voice. “You want **_nothing_** but to destroy my enemies. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master,” every officer replied, their eyes slightly glazed. No man could resist the grip of the Black Sleep.

“Very good,” grumbled Curragh, and he leaned over the map. “Now, observe: We have five hundred men, ready for combat.” The Moor indicated the Yatallu mountain on the map. “Meanwhile, the French control at least this much territory.” Now his hand swept over the West. “They have two thousand men, maybe more.”

Curragh straightened, his expression dark and hateful. “But we can wait no longer. The French grow too strong. There must be a way we can hurt them.” He glared at his officers. “How do we strike?”

The Yatallu commanders studied the map, their brows furrowed.

“Well,” Captain Legoux said slowly, stroking his beard, “the main supply lines for Saint-Louis’ food supply run through… here.” He tapped the map. “We could capture their granaries and starve them out, Master.”

“No good,” frowned Captain d'Aubigné. “Those granaries would be replaced within a few weeks. The African kings who serve Saint-Louis will fall over themselves to replace the French foodstuffs. Indeed, they would profit handsomely if-“

“**_Another plan_**,” demanded Curragh.

Now Lieutenant de Verville stepped forward. “Master,” he said, “the French rotate their soldiers with ships that follow this route.” His finger traced out a path across Atlantic waters. “If we can intercept those ships-“

“You are saying we should become pirates?” Mokrani interrupted. “Yatallu do not have experience on the high seas.”

de Verville faltered. “Yes, but-“

“No ships!” shouted Curragh, his lean face growing longer.

“Master,” said Marguerite from the bedding, “why don’t you smash the French in their seat of power?”

All the men turned to regard the naked woman with surprise.

“Lord-Governor de Farel has deployed his men to defend the French assets in Africa,” Marguerite told Curragh. “He’s prepared for a Yatallu attack everywhere… except in Saint-Louis. Strike there, and decapitate the snake in one stroke.”

Marguerite spoke freely and plainly. Her mind, clouded by the Black Sleep, was thinking purely in terms of how to please her master. A strategy was forming in her head.

“Saint-Louis is guarded by hundreds, perhaps thousands of trained soldiers,” d'Aubigné said, folding arms over his chest. “Plus, it is an island. We haven’t the strength-“

“We have all that we need,” Marguerite said confidently. She rose, walking smoothly to the table. “The French don’t know our numbers or where we are. We can strike whenever we please. And if we attack the one place de Farel doesn’t see as vulnerable… well, the day would be ours.”

Addressing Curragh directly, the Frenchwoman said, “Master, Governor de Farel has been running the slave trade for twenty years. No doubt it was he who signed the manifest that shipped your wife and daughters to the New World. If you were to take Saint-Louis and strike de Farel down...”

She paused, relishing the astonished look on the men’s faces.

“…you would cripple the slave trade,” she finished. “And avenge the memory of your family. All in one blow.”

Curragh’s eyes were shining. “How do we do this?” he demanded.

Nodding, Marguerite looked down at the map. Speaking freely, she detailed the plan that had formed in her mind. She spoke for less than four minutes.

When she finished, the officers and their king stared down at the parchment in a shocked silence.

Curragh turned to d'Aubigné and Legoux. “Will this work?” he said harshly. “Tell me **_complete truth_**.”

The expression of the two men faded as the Black Sleep compelled them to obey.

“There is great risk, Master,” said Legoux. “Much could go wrong.”

“And no doubt the plan would need to be changed quickly, once we reached Saint-Louis,” added d'Aubigné.

“Very true,” conceded Marguerite. “But how else can five hundred men smash an empire?”

She squinted down at the map. “We are perhaps twenty leagues from Fort _Triomphante_, as a bird flies, no? That would make for a journey of ten days, on foot?”

The Frenchwoman hadn’t addressed the question to anyone in particular. Nonetheless, the officers responded to the natural authority in her voice.

“A journey back across could take eight days, perhaps twelve,” Mokrani replied. “The desert is unpredictable.”

“Hmm,” mused Marguerite, tapping her fingers on the table in thought. “And if we swung to the south, to pass through this village… here?” She pointed to a dot on the map.

“Fifteen days,” Mokrani guessed.

“Why go through that village?” rumbled Curragh.

“We will need more porters and extra men,” Marguerite replied, her mind still calculating. “The new recruits will not have to fight in battle, but we will need their strong backs. And once we reach Saint-Louis, they can create a diversion. Lure de Farel’s troops out of the town. Make our assault so much easier.”

She looked pointedly at Curragh. “Make sure to bring plenty of unused diamonds, Master. We will need to collect more converts as we travel.”

The Moor grinned broadly. “There are hundreds of thousands of diamonds in the mountain. We will not want for the gems.”

“Fifteen days, fifteen days…” Marguerite muttered, her eyes back on the map. “In fifteen days, the moon will be full. That could also work to our advantage.”

She nodded, suddenly convinced. “Actually, that will be ideal. In Saint-Louis, a bright moon is almost as good as a hundred torches. And might help confuse the enemy, should we surprise them quickly enough.”

“That is,” Marguerite finished, looking up at Curragh, ”assuming you like my plan, Master.”

“Master,” said d'Aubigné quickly, “we can’t-“

“**_Fools!_**” cried the Arabian witch, rising from the bedding.

Now all turned to stare at the woman, who extended her arms to indicate Marguerite.

“Don’t you all **_see?_**” she exclaimed, as if stuck with wonder. “This woman, this French woman… she is the Great Warrior of the Moon!”

Mokrani recoiled. “Impossible!” the African blustered. “When the Great Warrior spirit returns to this earth, it will inhabit a man.”

“No,” insisted the witch, stabbing a finger at Marguerite. “By Allah, how did I not see it before? Consider: This woman, she is a natural leader. Men going into combat naturally trust her judgement and obey her commands. She is ruthless and brilliant in matters of strategy. And we have all seen what an unsurpassed warrior she is.”

“And,” the witch said, tilting her head to one side, “she designs a battle plan that uses the light of the full moon! **_What more proof do you need?_**”

Mokrani opened his mouth, hesitated, then said nothing.

All eyes turned to Curragh, who was regarding Marguerite with a mixture of triumph and wonder.

*********


	8. Battle in the Moonlight

** _Fifteen days later…_ **

Colonel Béroalde Gravon uneasily paced the battlements of Fort _Triomphante_. Below him, Saint-Louis was dark and silent; the evening sun had just set. A bright, full moon was rising in the northeast, illuminating the little island of Ndar and the Senegalese coast beyond in a soft, eerie glow.

The colonel absently ran his hand over the parapet, running through lists in his mind: The sentries were freshly posted. All munitions had been moved within the fortress magazine. The four cannons, normally pointed out to sea in case the Dutch dropped by, were now rotated about to face the African mainland. The ferries which connected the island with the Dark Continent were tied up and secure in Saint-Louis’s docks. The reserve regiments had been called up, and were on standby. All African slaves had been cleared from the slave-houses. The French civilians were sequestered in their homes.

All was ready. Saint-Louis was prepared for battle.

Footfalls interrupted Gravon’s uneasy thoughts. He turned, already knowing who approached.

Odart Brouard, that insufferable toady to the Lord-Governor, was hurrying towards the colonel, and making far too much noise. The military man cursed silently.

“Colonel Gravon,” the secretary wheezed as he hurried up.

“Silence, man!” hissed Gravon. If the Yatallu had long-range archers, both men might be picked off.

“Colonel,” Secretary Brouard mumbled, his face still red, “the Lord-Governor demands an update.”

“I’ll wager he does,” Gravon growled. By the colonel’s orders, the Lord-Governor had been secluded in the fort’s inner sanctum, guarded by his entire phalanx of Sotou’tor warriors. No doubt the fat man was complaining about his confinement. And his separation from the kitchen.

“With respect, Colonel,” said Brouard, not sounding respectful in the slightest, “but isn’t it likely that tonight’s alarm is… perhaps unnecessary?”

Gravon crossed his arms. “I’ve been over this with you, _Monsieur_. My scouts saw a column of Yatallu crossing the grasslands. Local slavers have confirmed this. The enemy is on the march, and they are coming here.”

“But Colonel,” the secretary protested, “there are over **_three thousand_**, fully-trained French soldiers in Saint-Louis. The Yatallu have been bold when we’ve encountered them on the mainland, but surely-“

“The enemy have been watching us,” insisted Gravon, his bushy moustache bristling. “There are nearby. I would stake my reputation on it.”

Brouard hesitated. Gravon was a lifelong military man. As a lieutenant, Gravon had been in the Siege of Maastricht, serving under the legendary Charles de Montsaulnin himself! The colonel had a chest full of metals, plus was respected and feared by his men. His expertise in the affairs of war was not to be taken lightly.

And yet… it would be foolhardy for the Yatallu to openly attack Saint-Louis, wouldn’t it? Gravon had put the whole island on full alert. The French were ready.

“Perhaps-“ Brouard suggested.

A booming sound to the southeast cut off his thought. Both Frenchmen whirled about, peering across the black waters to the mainland. The sound began to repeat, an angry, throbbing noise.

War drums!

Brouard gasped. As he watched, a single torchlight appeared on the southern shore, merely a pinprick of gold against the dark trees. But then another torch appeared. And another. And yet another. Like a swarm of fireflies, torches were popping up in the hundreds, far across the water.

“The Yatallu!” a sentry cried out.

The fortress stirred with alarm. Musketeers rushed to the battlements, already loading their weapons. In the watchtower, the lookout started ringing the alarm bell.

“Quickly, colonel,” said Brouard, his eyes wide with fear, “turn the guns on them! Blast them to Hades, before they can advance on us!”

Gravon stared at the torches, his eyes narrowed, his mind racing.

“No,” the colonel said slowly. “No, damn you, can’t you see?” He gestured to the distant fires. “Why would the enemy position themselves on the far shore, just outside of range?”

“They… they are preparing to attack us,” Brouard ventured.

“No,” replied Gravon, his voice hard. “They are a diversion. We are meant to fix our eyes on the southern shore while the **_real_** attackers sneak in and stab us in the belly.”

Brouard went white. “What are you saying?” he asked weakly.

“The enemy,” Gravon replied, turning north to scan Saint-Louis with suspicious eyes, “is already here.”

*********

As the sun had set, the five-hundred strong Yatallu had indeed crept ashore on Ndar, using makeshift pontoons. They had approached just as the sun was setting, in that twilight moment when it is difficult for lookouts to see because the waning sun was in their eyes. Now, at the northern most tip of Saint-Louis, just above the slave warehouses, five hundred Yatallu warriors readied for battle.

Each man was dressed in their bone-white robes, taking care to completely cover their heads with white hoods and veils. The Yatallu’s faceless appearance usually unnerved their enemy. In the eerie moonlight, these driven warriors would appear as ghosts come to life.

Just above the dark warehouses, the Yatallu had seized a small cottage. This little house now served as their command center. The Ya’Zhoul sharpshooters stood outside, their weapons and senses alert.

Inside, Curragh, Marguerite, and most of the Yatallu officers all crowded around a small table. Like their footsoldiers, everyone at the table wore bone-white battle robes. Their heads were momentarily exposed. On the table was a map of Saint-Louis that the captains had sketched from memory. Now, everyone peered over the drawing.

Lieutenant de Verville burst into the door. He snapped to attention, saluting Marguerite.

“General!” he cried. “Our men on the shore have sounded their drums.”

“Very good,” Marguerite acknowledged, studying the map. She absently tightened the pistol-belt around her robe. “Now, while Colonel Gravon is distracted, we have to make our push up the _Rue Principale_. Are the squads ready?”

“Standing by, general,” Captain Legoux nodded. “Captain d'Aubigné and his men are already dispatched.”

Marguerite nodded, drawing her own pistol. Everything was in motion. “Let’s go,” she said simply.

The Yatallu officers turned, shouting for their men. They covered their heads and faces as they took to the _Rue Principale_.

As Marguerite led her army off to war, Curragh hung back, folding his arms over his chest and smiling.

At his side, was his Arabian woman. “Your little French pet is quite the general, Master,” she grudgingly admitted.

“_Madame_ Marguerite? Indeed,” smirked Curragh. “She is **_indeed_** the Great Warrior of the Moon.”

“She will betray you,” the Arabian woman warned. “I have foreseen it.”

For the first time since setting foot in Saint-Louis, Curragh’s confidence flickered.

“How can that be?” he rumbled. “Her thoughts are firmly in my control. And after she slaughters every last man, woman, and child of Saint-Louis, I will erase her mind entirely. She will live out her days, naked and chained to my bed, a thoughtless toy for my pleasure alone.”

He brushed aside his doubts.

*********

Within the fortress, Colonel Gravon was reviewing the patrol squads, and feeling nervous. His troops were fresh, young, eager for battle. But too few had seen any combat. Most had held their muskets only in the training camps. He saw overconfidence and juvenile excitement as he looked over his men.

“Stand ready!” the sergeant-at-arms screamed as Gravon climbed atop a barrel. As one, the soldiers jumped to attention.

“Men,” Gravon cried out, drawing his sword, “the Yatallu are here, here in Saint-Louis. First and Second companies will break up into five-man patrols and exit by the service gates.”

The French infantry exchanged nervous glances? **_Exit by the service gates?_** The was tantamount to sneaking out the back of the fortress! How many Yatallu were in Saint-Louis, anyway?!?

“Patrols will search the town,” Colonel Gravon yelled on, ignoring the murmurs among his troops. “You will patrol the streets, search every house, look for the enemy everywhere. No man is to wander off alone. Keep your ears open and converge immediately if you hear musket-fire. Understand?”

“Sir! Yes, sir!” shouted the soldiers.

“Very good,” the colonel nodded. “I will take the main detachment out through the Main Gates and march north on the slave warehouses; that is the most likely place for the enemy to be hiding.”

He raised his sword high in the air. “To arms! _Vive la France!_”

*********

The moon had now positioned itself almost directly over Saint-Louis. Like an artificial sun, it beamed downwards, casting the French settlement in an unholy light.

For the first time, Marguerite wondered if attacking under the full moon was a mistake. Her strategy relied on timing and surprise. And Saint-Louis was too well-lit. The moonlight was bright enough to read by. Everything – and everyone – in the streets were visible. Perhaps her plan was a mistake…?

It couldn’t be helped now. The die was cast.

Swallowing her fear, General Marguerite led her force out from the slave-houses, down the _Rue Principale_. The gates of Fort_ Triomphante_ were one thousand paces, directly ahead.

*********

The small French patrols slipped out of Fort_ Triomphante’s_ rear service-gates, then fanned out across Saint-Louis. Following their orders, these men headed to the outskirts of the town, then proceeded northward. The farther they proceeded from the fortress walls, the jumpier they became. The moon was casting shadows everywhere.

*********

Moving quickly, Secretary Brouard descended a dark, narrow staircase into Fort_ Triomphante’s_ cellars. Down here, there was a cramped little safe-room, a fortress within the fortress. Two burly Sotou’tor warriors stood outside the iron door, their thick arms folded across their broad chests. The guards glared at Brouard as he scurried up.

“To see the Lord-Governor!” the little man snapped.

With resentment, the Sotou’tor stood aside, one of them swinging open the door. Brouard hurried inside.

Within the fortified chamber was Lord-Governor de Farel, and his six remaining Sotou’tor. de Farel sprawled across a sitting-couch which had been carried down from his personal quarters. Because of Colonel Gravon’s frenzied rush to stash him in the safe-room, de Farel was dressed in a common gentleman’s suit, not his usual garish clothes. In fact, his outfit looked no grander than Brouard’s.

A plate of African smoked fish was in the Lord-Governor’s greasy hands. “Well?” the fat man rumbled, eyeing Brouard.

“My lord!” exclaimed the poor secretary, “the Yatallu are here! In Saint-Louis!”

The eyes of the Sotou’tor glinted. They flexed their hands, already hovering over their holstered weapons.

But de Farel’s expression froze. His hand remained suspended over his plate. “Are you… sure?” he asked carefully.

*********

The main gates of Fort_ Triomphante_ swung open. Three hundred paces up the _Rue Principale_, Marguerite could see the great doors kicking up dust as they parted.

Immediately, she knew the element of surprise was lost. Her Yatallu warriors were exposed, out in the open moonlight. They would be spotted immediately.

“Take cover!” she screamed.

*********

The first of Gravon’s soldiers saw Marguerite’s force immediately.

“Yatallu!” shouted a panicking Third Musketeer. “There they are!!!”

Before the Colonel Gravon could issue orders, the first line whipped up their muskets and opened fire.

*********

The crack of musket-fire caused the Lord-Governor to jump. Even muffled through the thick doors, the sound was dreadful to the ears.

“My word…!” the governor croaked, his face going slack. “That… that was close!”

*********

In the streets, Marguerite dove behind a barrel just in time. Musket-balls shot past. Behind her, there was the sickening crunch and gurgle as the tiny irons ripped into muscle and bone. Gerard de Noyen, First Musketeer from the 14th, collapsed into the dirt, surprise and horror etched onto his dead face.

*********

“Hold fire, **_hold fire!_**” Colonel Gravon cried.

The military officer raced forward, hoping his foolhardy recruits hadn’t all discharged their muskets. If they had, it would be at least thirty seconds – an eternity – before a second volley could be organized. Half his men could be dead in that time.

As he reached the front line, perhaps only five feet outside of the fortress gate, Gravon could look up the _Rue Principale_. His heart sunk.

He saw the enemy. The Yatallu were gray shadows in the street, scrambling for cover, but clearly well-organized and determined. There were **_hundreds_** of the faceless, robed warriors.

Every musket on French front line was smoking. Gravon’s foolhardy men had fired every shot they had.

“Sir!” a young ensign cried. “We caught the enemy unawares, we can chase them down-“

“**_Reload, you fools, reload!!!_**” screamed Gravon.

*********

Marguerite heard the moans of her dying men, but there was nothing she could do for them now. The battle had to be won.

“**_First squads!_**” she bellowed. “**_Return fire!_**”

Her Yatallu warriors, both French and African alike, sprang into formation. They leveled their muskets, taking careful aim.

*********

It was as Gravon feared. The Yatallu commander, whoever he was, had trained his men well. The instant the enemy musketmen appeared, the colonel knew his own men were outmaneuvered.

Gravon roared, “Fall b-“

The enemy fired. Twenty French soldiers screamed, crumbling to the earth in horrible piles of blood and mangled flesh. The ensign before Gravon collapsed as a musket-ball shot clear through his own chest.

“Fall back, fall back, **_fall back!!!_**” cried Gravon. He prayed that his rear lines were preparing loaded muskets.

*********

Throughout Saint-Louis, the French patrols froze in their tracks. **_Musketfire!_** There was musketfire, **_from the fortress!_** Were the Yatallu actually charging the main gates?!?

Slowly, the tiny squads overcame their skittish nerves. If Fort_ Triomphante_ was under attack, all French guns would be needed.

The patrols cautiously made their way towards the_ Rue Principale_.

*********

Marguerite ordered her second squad to fire, then signaled the halt. She had two hundred musketmen, but had to use their volleys carefully. Colonel Gravon, she guessed, had several **_thousand_** men, who were no doubt furiously reloading their weapons. Plus, there were almost certainly more troops spread throughout the town of Saint-Louis; those soldiers would be rushing in from all sides now.

The situation was grim.

Thinking quickly, the young Frenchwoman made a decision. It would be several seconds before Gravon’s men could open fire again. That gave Marguerite a little time to press her fleeting advantage.

She had to order an assault, while the time was ripe. Perhaps the furiosity of the Yatallu war-cries would frighten the French enough so that they would break ranks. It was a slim hope.

*********

Deep in the fortress safe-house, Lord-Governor de Farel could hear the fighting: the crack of musket-fire, the screams of wounded men, the bellowing of orders. The fat administrator could not guess which way the battle was going.

“My lord,” the Captain of the Sotou’tor rumbled, bowing as he spoke. “Your life is in danger. You must allow me and my men to join the battle.”

“You’ll remain where you are,” barked de Farel, his expression ashen. For once, the Lord-Governor had forgotten about the food on his plate.

*********

On the southern side of Fort _Triomphante_, five men hurriedly banged on one of the fortified service gates. The on-duty watch officer opened the door’s spy-hole, peering out at the intruders.

“Corporal de Marchey and his squad,” the squad leader outside identified himself. “We return from the village! Let us in!”

“Password?”

“Dear God in Heaven!” cried the corporal. “The Yatallu are out here, man! Open the door!”

The watch officer bit his lip, making a snap decision. He threw back the bolt, then opened the gate.

The five-men squad piled inside. “Hurry, hurry!” yelled de Marchey, “the Yatallu are upon us!”

Three of the soldiers sprang forward, slamming and bolting the door shut.

The watch officer shook his head. “A close one, eh, corporal? How goes the battle?”

The corporal gestured to his men.

“Hey,” said the watch officer suddenly, “I know you… You’re Captain d'Aubigné! You’re not a corporal at all-“

Indeed it was d'Aubigné, dressed in a corporal’s uniform. With one brutal motion, the Yatallu captain’s fist connected with the watch officer’s head. The poor man crumbled onto the stones, unconscious.

*********

Colonel Gravon’s throat ached from screaming. “Form the lines, form the lines!” he screeched.

His young troopers had retreated back into the fort in a disorganized stampede, and now the men clumsily sought some semblance of discipline. Panic was threatening to boil over.

However, the rear lines were getting fresh muskets ready. The junior officers were asserting control. Squads were reassembling, if slowly. The French might have been briefly routed, but their setback was temporary. Once they organized the front lines, they could go on the offensive.

Gravon just had to hold on until then.

*********

Marguerite watched the last French soldier stumble back into the fortress. But the gates were not closing.

“They’re off-balance,” she said knowingly to Captain Mokrani, at her elbow. “We’ve only got a little time before they can strike back. Call up the Ya’Zhoul sharpshooters.”

Mokrani nodded, then gave a hand signal to his men.

*********

“Front lines, ready, colonel!” shouted an ensign.

The French soldiers looked at their commander. Their faces showed fear, but determination.

“_Bien joué,_” nodded Gravon, feeling in control once again. “Advance! Fire on my command only.”

*********

In less than a minute, the Ya’Zhoul had swarmed to the front of the Yatallu lines. Marguerite paused to admire her troops’ efficiency. They moved with a silent but lethal purpose. Each man clutched a long musket, plus had an Arabian scimitar tucked into his belt.

Muskets, of course, were notoriously inaccurate firearms. Outside of 300 yards, even the sharpest eye could not guarantee that they could hit their target. In dim moonlight, that range was greatly reduced.

So for her specialized killers to be effective, Marguerite had to position these guns as close as possible to the open fortress doors. It was a terrible risk for her best battlefield assets, but she had no choice.

“Have your men target the Main Gate,” she instructed the Ya’Zhoul’s captain. “Tell them to aim for Colonel Gravon. Wait for my signal.”

*********

Captain d'Aubigné and his squad strode through Fort _Triomphante_, taking care not to look any Frenchman in the eye. d'Aubigné knew the fortress interior quite well, and in his ensign’s uniform, he was able to blend in with the commotion all about him. Not one of Colonel Gravon’s men spotted him.

In the main courtyard, d'Aubigné stopped and turned to his Yatallu compatriots. “This is where we part,” he instructed. “Your orders are to sow confusion once I have completed my assignment. Do you understand?”

“Yessir!”

Without a further word, d'Aubigné turned and headed deeper into the fortress innards.

The Black Sleep permeated d'Aubigné’s mind with a fiendish grip. Ever since he’d stared into that glittering diamond, the aristocratic captain felt as if he were sleepwalking, unable to change the commands that Marguerite and The Master had lodged into his thoughts. He obeyed without comprehending what he was doing or why.

Outside the fortress stockroom, d'Aubigné paused to pull a lit torch from its wall mount. Then he pushed his way into the stores, surprising the two ensigns who were on duty there.

“Hey-“ one of them said, puzzled.

d'Aubigné ignored them. Obeying Marguerite’s last command, he strode to the largest barrel of gunpowder, then plunged the torch inside.

*********

The stores of Fort _Triomphante_ exploded in a massive roar of fire. A pillar of flame leapt up from the center of the fortress, spitting shards of wood and iron in all directions. The central watchtower instantly burst aflame, burning like a candle. Men by the dozens screamed and ran in all directions, their clothing and flesh smoldering.

The force of the explosion knocked over most of the soldiers at the Main Gate. Men tumbled to the earth, and muskets prematurely fired as they were dropped or banged against the ground.

Colonel Gravon stared at the raging inferno, raw fear gripping him. He knew: he was defeated. The battle was lost. Somehow, the Yatallu commander had breached his defenses, and now _Triomphante_ was turned into a firetrap. The French position was crippled. Probably fatally.

Discipline among his men was impossible now. Too many soldiers had been within the fortress when the explosion happened. Now, those men were dissolving into a frightened mob, uncertain what to do.

*********

The very walls of the safe-room trembled as the gunpowder exploded. It was as if a great hammer had struck the earth. Lord-Governor de Farel dropped his plate, his eyes wide in terror.

*********

Far across Saint-Louis, Curragh laughed in triumph when he heard the great explosion.

“At last,” he cried, clapping his hands once in joy. “At last!”

The Moor closed his eyes, the weight of the moment finally settling upon him. In his mind, he saw his beautiful wife and daughters, tenderly holding one another and smiling at him. His littlest, Bahja, extended her little hands, as if inviting him in for a hug.

Curragh choked back a sob, surprised at the power of his own heart.

“Master?” The Arabian witch said.

Furious at his loss of control, Curragh’s eyes flow open. The hour of his revenge was at hand. Now was not the time to wallow in sorrow. Oh, he could weep for his family, but only after every last French soul in Saint-Louis was dead.

“Come!” the Moor declared, heading for the doorway. “I want to be there when they drag that miserable Lord-Governor from his hole in the ground!”

“You’re joining the battle?” the Arabian woman exclaimed. “Master, no!”

“I will see my revenge completed,” Curragh vowed. He tucked a long dagger into his belt. “Call my personal guard.”

*********

Mokrani had smiled grimly when Fort _Triomphante_ had exploded. But Marguerite closed her eyes in grief.

Captain d'Aubigné had not been an evil man. But The Master had ordered that d'Aubigné’s life was to be sacrificed, and that was it. The Master could not be disobeyed.

Deep with Marguerite’s soul, she knew all of this – the battle, the killing, the sacrifices – was wrong. And yet, she could not deny the magic which fogged her own thoughts. **_The Master must be obeyed_**.

The young Frenchwoman shook her head, returning the present.

“Tell the Ya’Zhoul to fire,” she ordered Mokrani.

*********

There was one last chance, Gravon realized. Perhaps he could use the battle’s chaos to his advantage. The colonel grabbed the sleeve of his lieutenant.

“We charge the Yatallu in the streets!” he shouted. “All men who are able are to follow me, on my command! Give the orders!”

*********

The Ya’Zhoul sharpshooters all fired as one. Their musket-balls cut down Colonel Gravon where he stood, and mercifully, the colonel was dead before he realized that he had been shot. He never had the chance to lead his assault.

“Colonel Gravon!” screamed his hapless lieutenant, unable to comprehend that his commander was gone. “**_Colonel!_**”

The French ranks broke up entirely.

*********

“They’re finished,” Marguerite said darkly, observing the panicking French. “Sound the charge.”

Mokrani gave a screeching eagle-call – the signal to attack.

And the Yatallu rose up from the streets. Weapons in hand, they flooded into Fort _Triomphante_, screaming ghastly war-cries as they came.

*********

Within the safe-room, Lord-Governor de Farel could hear the battle drawing closer. Yatallu voices could clearly be heard over the roar of war.

“They’re inside the fortress!” cried Secretary Brouard in terror. “They’re coming!”

de Farel’s nerves snapped. “Captain!” he shouted to the Sotou’tor chief. “Prepare your men! We’ll make for my ship; its docked only a hundred paces from the fort.”

The Sotou’tor warrior bowed, once. “As you wish, my lord.”

*********


	9. The Safe-Room

Only those who have never seen war can call it glorious. In battle, men set upon one another with nothing by the determination to kill, to slaughter, to crush the life from an enemy. Foes charge one another, weapons are used, and a person leaves this beautiful world forever. No matter what technology is used, there is nothing civilized in this savage ritual. Only grief and madness are left in its wake.

The Yatallu and French who collided inside Fort _Triomphante’s_ gates now engaged in this horrifying butchery. Fighting hand-to-hand with pistols, muskets, bayonets, knifes, swords, and sometimes just clawed fingers, the two armies sought to tear one another to pieces. Blood flowed freely. Men cried out as they felt their last moments, cried out to God, to their mothers, to their children, to anyone. The bodies fell atop of one another in the hideous stink of death.

*********

As the battle raged, Fort _Triomphante_ continued to burn to the ground. The main tower, consumed by flames, crumbled into a pile of flaming timber. The blaze spread to the northern walls, soon driving the French soldiers from their sentry positions. Smoke and ash gouged everyone’s vision.

*********

Marguerite fought like a tigress, a sword in one hand, a long dagger in another. Mokrani flanked her as best he could, but every time the Yatallu warriors turned, there was another French infantryman charging them. Her heart pounding, Marguerite allowed her instincts to take over completely. She was a whirling pillar of death, unassailable by any enemy.

“General, general!” shouted Mokrani at one point.

With a brutal swipe, Marguerite cut down her latest assailant. The attacking Frenchman screeched, then collapsed to the ground.

“General!” repeated Mokrani.

Her chest heaving, Marguerite paused. The battle still raged all about her. There was no telling who would become the victor. The French were numerous, but frightened to death and leaderless. The Yatallu fought like wild animals, but were falling at an alarming rate. Marguerite only had four hundred troops, and no reserves. Her forces might be depleted at any moment.

“General!” cried Mokrani, yet again.

The young Frenchwoman grit her teeth. “We’ve got to find the Lord-Governor,” she commanded. “I know where he’ll be. Gather all the Ya’Zhoul you can find.”

*********

The Sotou’tor warriors worked quickly. Four of them formed a spearhead that would push through the fighting, killing anyone – Yatallu or French – who got in the way. Two more warriors would flank Lord-Governor de Farel’s sides; the last two men would bring up the rear. This small phalanx would charge into the fray, then make for de Farel’s ship, just outside the service doors. It was a desperate plan.

As the Sotou’tor took up their dreadful weapons and gathered about their master, Secretary Brouard tried to squeeze in behind Governor de Farel.

“What are you doing?” de Farel snapped.

“My lord,” stammered Brouard, “I… I…”

The Sotou’tor captain struck Brouard with the back of his hand. The secretary was flung to the dirty stone floor.

“I’m not paid to protect your cowardly hide,” the Sotou’tor sneered.

*********

Just outside Fort _Triomphante_’s main gates, Curragh marveled at the fruits of his labors. The Moor watched the fortress burn. He listened to the wails of the dying inside. He smelled the gunpowder, the burning wood, the blood.

A French musketeer suddenly appeared on the burning parapets, high above. He whipped up his rifle, and fired once.

Instantly, Curragh’s bodyguards returned fire. The Frenchman twisted in pain, then dropped from view.

Curragh smiled grimly, coming out of his instinctive crouch. “You see?” he remarked to his Arabian mistress. “Providence protects me.”

But the witch did not respond. Surprised, Curragh turned around.

His Arabian woman lay in the dirt, a dark red stain spreading across the front of her robe. Her face was twisted in pain. She gasped once, wordlessly, and then was still.

*********

Somehow, Mokrani had gathered six Ya’Zhoul fighters, all experienced men, all with the enemy’s blood on their robes.

“Com’on,” ordered Marguerite, already raising her blades into a defensive stance. “The Lord-Governor will be sequestered in the cellar.” She pointed to a doorway, across the burning courtyard. “There, then down the steps.”

With great speed, the Frenchwoman and her warriors raced through the courtyard, murder in their eyes.

*********

“**_Please!_**” begged the pitiful Brouard, on his knees. “**_Take me with you, please!!!_**”

Lord-Governor de Farel ignored him. “Let’s go,” he ordered the Sotou’tor captain.

The big man, at the front of the little party, unbolted the safe-room’s iron door. Then, drawing his double swords, he charged up the dark stairway.

*********

Marguerite and the Sotou’tor’s captain collided with each other right in the middle of the stairs. There was no candlelight, nay, any light at all. So the two enemies realized the other’s presence by brutal, physical contact.

The tall African reacted first, thrusting his sword up directly at the Frenchwoman’s torso.

There was no time. In the blink of an eye, Marguerite ducked, then leapt straight at the man. She shot under his blade, bracing herself, and smashed her shoulder squarely into his knees.

The Sotou’tor bellowed, tumbling backwards. Marguerite’s improvised gymnastics had caught the seasoned warrior completely by surprise. Now both the captain and the general crashed down the stairway together in a pile of arms and legs and swords.

Marguerite’s head banged off the walls, and her vision swam. She tasted blood in her mouth.

But her quick aerobics had disoriented her enemy. The Sotou’tor captain roared in fury, pushing his own men aside as he tried to rise to his feet. In the cramped darkness, no-one was certain what was happening.

The man’s cry was his mistake. In an instant, Marguerite knew exactly where he was. Although she was still stunned, she thrust her knife in the precise direction of his voice.

She felt the knife sink into exposed flesh. The captain’s shout turned into a sickening, gagging sound. Marguerite twisted her blade, then ripped it free.

Both of the captain’s swords clattered to the steps. Marguerite heard his body reel back again, this time to fall down forever.

In the pitch-black, narrow stairway, the remaining Sotou’tor knew their escape route was cut off. They blindly hurled two throwing-daggers – which just missed Marguerite’s shoulders and head – and then retreated.

“Hurry!” Marguerite shouted at her men.

The young Frenchwoman had never seen the safe-room before, of course. But Captains d'Aubigné and Legoux had described it to her clearly enough. If the Sotou’tor could retreat and shut the iron door, they might escape.

Indeed, Marguerite could hear the creaking hinges even now. The door was closing! The Sotou’tor and the Lord-Governor had retreated faster than Marguerite thought possible, and now they were seconds from barricading themselves from Marguerite’s grasp forever.

** _And The Master had ordered that the Lord-Governor must be captured._ **

In a flash, Marguerite leapt forward, shoving her sword straight forward. The blade shot through the darkness. And by a miracle, it wedged itself between the doorframe and the closing door. Iron banged against iron. But the door could not close.

And then the Ya’Zhoul swarmed forward, every man pushing as hard as they could against the door. Now the Sotou’tor were at a disadvantage; the door was angled such that only two of them could push it from the inside.

Men on both sides grunted as they applied their full strength. Marguerite could hear the hinges groan as the door was slowly forced backward.

And then the Sotou’tor, bloodlust in their eyes, leapt through the doorway, blades flashing in the near-darkness. Torchlight from within the safe-room flooded into the narrow corridor.

Yatallu swords rose to meet them. Metal plunged deep into skin and flesh. Blood spilled like water from buckets. Men screamed and crumpled and fell.

The remaining Sotou’tor were quickly forced back into the tiny safe-room. Giving no quarter, Marguerite and her surviving Ya’Zhoul stormed in, their weapons slashing. The dim firelight played tricks with everyone’s eyes.

Marguerite, her own battle-fury uncontrollable, personally killed two of the Sotou’tor herself. One second, the vicious warriors were before her, and then her skilled hands flew. And then the men were no more.

The cramped melee raged on for a minute, a minute that stretched into a hideous forever.

And then…

The last Sotou’tor groaned in agony, sinking to the floor, and into death. His sword clattered from his lifeless hand. His eyes bulged in unspoken grief.

Then there was a terrible silence.

*********

Marguerite stood there, her twin weapons in her bruised hands, her face and robes splattered with blood, her chest heaving, her senses on overload. The smell of gore filled her nostrils. Her eyes struggled to pierce the dim torchlight.

About her in the little room, Yatallu and Sotou’tor lay dead. Mokrani, a knife in his belly, stared up at her with blank eyes. The young Frenchwoman grimaced, sickened. She was the only combatant left.

Far, far above, the sounds of men fighting raged on. It sounded like battle was winding down… but Marguerite couldn’t be sure. Nor did she care. The Black Sleep took possession of her mind and commanded her to press on.

Stepping over the bodies, Marguerite turned to face Lord-Governor de Farel and Secretary Brouard, the only two survivors on the French side. The two men gaped at her, pure horror etched on their faces. de Farel sat down heavily on his sitting-couch.

Marguerite tore off her hood and veil. She pointed her blood-caked dagger directly at de Farel.

“You…” the Lord-Governor exhaled, “…you’re **_French!_**”

Obeying the orders in her mind, Marguerite said, “My lord, you are a prisoner of the Yatallu. My master awaits you.”

“She’s… a woman,” Brouard said stupidly.

“You’re French,” Lord-Governor exclaimed again, his eyes wide with shock. The obese man licked his lips, and Marguerite could tell he was thinking quickly.

“Listen, _Mademoiselle_,” he said rapidly, raising his greedy hands, “surely we can make an accord, no? After all… we are both civilized. We can-“

“**_Be silent,_**” warned Marguerite.

“Listen to me, listen to me,” the fat governor babbled, extending one hand. “You don’t have to fight for the Yatallu anymore. Why, I could make you rich. Yes, I could-“

Footfalls approached from the corridor outside. A soft candle-light appeared in the doorway.

And then Curragh stepped into the little chamber, a long knife in one hand. Behind him were his personal Yatallu guards. The Moor’s lean face was a mixture of triumph and hatred.

“Master,” Marguerite said immediately, bowing her head and lowering her weapons. She stepped to the side.

The Moor smiled cruelly. “Leave us,” he commanded the bodyguards. They nodded once, then retreated back up the stairs.

“Well done, general, well done,” Curragh now murmured, his burning eyes already fixing upon de Farel. “Our warriors are nearly done slaughtering the French soldiers. After that, we will begin massacring all the people of Saint-Louis.”

“Oh dear God…” Lord-Governor de Farel moaned in pitiful fear.

“But first,” rumbled the Moor, stepping forward, “I want His Excellency to know who has beaten him.”

de Farel’s mouth flopped open and closed, as if the man were a fish.

Suddenly, the fat man pointed to Secretary Brouard. “He’s the man you want!” de Farel squeaked. “**_He’s_** the Lord-Governor! Not me! Not me! I’m merely his secretary!”

Brouard gasped. “You… you lie!” he hissed.

“He’s the Lord-Governor!” squealed de Farel, desperate to convince the Yatallu King. “Ask him! He knows where all the slave-records are!”

Both Frenchmen were dressed in common suits. To Curragh, there was no way to know which man was telling the truth. The Yatallu commander’s angry mouth curled. His eyes darted between the two Frenchmen, and then he turned on Brouard.

“No!” cried Brouard. “**_No, no!_**”

With a mad stare in his eye and a wild cry in his throat, the little secretary leapt forward, snatching up a dagger that was plunged into the chest of a dead Sotou’tor. He whirled on his employer, stabbing de Farel in the heart with a vengeful frenzy.

The Lord-Governor’s eyes bulged in horror and shock. He shrieked. His fat arms flailed once, then he collapsed into a quivering pile of blubber. His life faded instantly.

Brouard, his hands shining red with blood, stepped back. The little man trembled uncontrollably. With unspeakable fear, he looked up into Curragh’s seething face.

The Moor had not changed his expression. “Well,” he rumbled contemptuously, “I see now why the French are called the highest civilization in Europe. You turn on one another like rabid dogs.”

“He was the Lord-Governor, and I have slaughtered your enemy for you, master,” Brouard moaned. The little secretary reached for Curragh with pleading, trembling hands. “Please… please…”

Curragh drew his curved dagger. “I don’t care,” he snarled. There was murder in his eyes.

“No!” screamed the wretched Brouard, dropping to his knees. “**_No, please, no!!!_**”

Disgusted, Marguerite looked away. Her eyes drifted down to the dead Ya’Zhoul at her feet. The Ya’Zhoul captain. He had fought with her to the last.

She paused. A feeling of dread suddenly gnawed at Marguerite, a feeling she couldn’t comprehend, yet one that swept her from the present.

Without knowing why she did this, the young woman knelt and pulled back the veil over the Ya’Zhoul captain’s face.

Her breath caught.

It was Tristan.

There, cold and lifeless on the stone floor, was Tristan, the only man Marguerite’s love had ever known. The sole reason she had remained in the French Royal Army. The future she had pinned all of her hopes upon. The only person in this hideous world who loved her.

He was gone.

A cry greater than the weeping of all the angels welled up within Marguerite.

“**_NO!!!_**” she wailed.

Her voice breaking, the young woman collapsed into gushing sobs. She fell forward, gently cradling Tristan’s head in her arms. Her soul split open in her grief.

“General!” she heard Curragh growl.

Marguerite wept openly. The Black Sleep, once in complete control of all of her thoughts and emotions, was powerless now. The depth of her sorrow was bottomless.

Curragh shouted again: “General!” Secretary Brouard, covering at the Moor’s feet, was momentarily forgotten. “General, stand at attention! I command you!”

Through red, swollen eyes, Marguerite lifted her head to glare at her master. She furiously wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Master,” she said, her voice trembling, “you will never command anyone again.”

And in a motion too fast for the naked eye to follow, she snatched a blood-splattered knife up from the floor. The blade flew through the air, straighter than an arrow. It plunged into Curragh’s neck, right up to the hilt.

The Lord of Diamonds gagged once. His eyes rolled up into their sockets and his knees buckled.

As his head rolled to one side, the knife blade pressed against Curragh’s pouch string. The thin ribbon snapped, and the pouch spilled open. Bright, shining diamonds spilled out all over the floor.

Then the Moor’s body crashed against the stone floor. There was a pause has his heart slowed, then stopped. The diamonds, littered everywhere, flared with light one last time.

And then the glow of the wicked gems faded. Without the evil will of their master, the diamonds were made powerless. As Brouard watched with wide eyes, the little stones crumbled and the dissolved into nothing but ash.

*********


	10. Epilogue

Throughout the burning remains of Fort _Triomphante_, the fighting abruptly stopped. The Yatallu were Yatallu no more, merely Frenchmen and Africans suddenly waking from the Black Sleep. The evil magic which had enslaved their minds was lifted. As Curragh died, so did his control over their minds.

Confused, Curragh’s men tore off their veils, exposing their faces to the night air. They dropped their weapons. Their memories were hazy, and they felt as if they were coming out of a long, horrible dream.

And the remains of Colonel Gravon’s regiment lowered their arms, too. While they did not understand what had happened, they knew the fierce war-cries had ceased. The French gratefully lowered their guns, relived to have come through that horrible night alive.

Then, all men backed into Saint-Louis, standing away from Fort _Triomphante_ until the last of the flaming timbers had been consumed. Thankfully, the wind had been light and the blaze did not spread to the town.

*********

In the morning, search parties combed through the smoking wreckage, seeking the bodies of the fallen. The human cost of the battle had been staggering. The funeral pyre burned almost continuously, as there was no time to dig proper graves.

A team of volunteers discovered the stairway down to de Farel’s safe-room. The little subterranean chamber was all that remained of _Triomphante’s_ once-imposing structure. The debris before the door was cleared away. But when searchers pounded on the fortified entrance, no-one within responded.

So the would-be rescuers turned away. There were so many other pressing tasks at hand.

*********

By a cruel twist of fate, Lieutenant Regnauld de Verville was the highest-ranked officer who had survived the battle. The chain of command demanded that he assume the reigns of authority. Now, the men looked to him for leadership.

“We… have to rebuild our fort,” de Verville said, stunned at his unexpected promotion.

The French soldiers organized themselves into labor teams. Trees from the mainland were chopped down, carpenters began crafting, the old foundation was cleared away. After all, sooner or later the Dutch would learn of Fort _Triomphante’s_ demise, and no doubt they would send warships to investigate. The French defenses had to be restored, and quickly.

*********

Shortly after the construction began, the iron door of the safe-room creaked open. Looking aghast, Secretary Odart Brouard emerged, squinting in the harsh daylight. The little man staggered to the top of the narrow staircase.

“Hey!” the French soldiers cried out when they spotted him. “Hey, hey!”

Brouard’s nerves were still frayed, but he recognized opportunity when he saw it. “You three!” he growled to a trio of nearby infantrymen. “Come with me.”

The secretary limped across Saint-Louis to the Lord-Governor de Farel’s house, now the largest structure on Ndar Island. The little man threw open the double doors, startling de Farel’s small children and their nannies, all playing together in the atrium.

“Throw them all out,” Brouard snarled. “This is **_my_** house now.”

As the children and their caregivers were evicted, Brouard climbed the staircase, enjoying a newfound feeling of power. This sensation only got stronger as he entered de Farel’s office. The little man sat at the Lord-Governor’s writing-desk, relishing the moment.

His smarmy gaze fell to the papers on the desk. Manifests for slave ships. Schedules for slave-convoys. Contracts for more Africans to be shipped to the New World. The entire French slave trade was there, before him, all on paper.

Licking his thumbs, Brouard began going through the evil documents. He was the Lord-Governor now. And there was a fortune to be made.

The slave trade would continue.

*********

** _One Week Later…_ **

A day after he accepted a promotion to Colonel, Regnauld de Verville found himself by the Saint-Louis docks, supervising another shipment of timber from the mainland. He was about to return to the fort’s construction site… when a flutter of light blue caught his eye.

There, standing with the soldiers and craftsmen waiting for the next ferry back to Senegal, was a young woman. The lady was dressed in plain sky-blue travel robes, and she stood beside a horse, fully loaded for a long trip. The woman’s proud bearing was unmistakable.

Feeling bewildered, de Verville approached the woman, nervously touching her on the elbow. “_Marguerite_…?” he asked.

The woman turned. Indeed, it was the young widow of Tristan Allegrain. She was as young and beautiful as ever. But her eyes gazed at de Verville with a haunted expression.

“Marguerite!” exclaimed the colonel, genuinely delighted. He’d thought that she’d fallen with all the other Yatallu: Captain d'Aubigné, Alain Legoux, Mokrani, Gerard de Noyen, Lycidas Nesle, Hylas Pug, Little Pierre Gruner… and Tristan Allegrain.

“Colonel,” Marguerite replied. She smiled, briefly. But the smile did not reach her eyes.

“Marguerite, you are alive!” de Verville gushed in open relief.

But then his grin faded. “But… where are you going?”

“I have to destroy it, Regnauld,” Marguerite replied quietly. “Before someone else finds it. I have to destroy the Nation of Diamonds.”

de Verville felt a strange sense of loss at these words. “But…” he stammered.

Marguerite tilted her head, just slightly. Her knowing expression expressed a world of feelings.

The Yatallu, de Verville vaguely remembered, had marched on Saint-Louis with every man and woman Curragh could muster. Even the workers in the diamond mine were drafted into the Yatallu column. That meant that once Marguerite’s army had departed, the mountain – and its evil treasure – were left completely unguarded.

“Someone else will hear of what happened to us, Regnauld,” said Marguerite softly. “Another Curragh will rise up, claim the diamonds in the mountain, and the blood will flow all over again. I can’t let that happen.”

“You’re going… alone?” the new colonel exclaimed.

Marguerite nodded.

de Verville frowned. “This is madness, you know that, no? How can you-“

“When I reach the mountain…” Marguerite hesitated, staring into space. “I’m not certain. If I can’t explode the mines, perhaps I can cause them to collapse. Or maybe I’ll spend the rest of my days guarding them.” She sighed. “I don’t know yet.”

Her expression hardened. “But no-one else must ever possess those diamonds again. Ever.”

“At least let me send a detachment with you,” de Verville said hurriedly.

He was about to shout to his ensign when Marguerite placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “No, Regnauld,” she murmured, her deep blue eyes probing his face. “We can’t trust anyone who might be tempted by the diamonds’ power. I can do this, alone.”

“**_Preparing to cast off!_**” the ferryman shouted, indicating that his craft was about depart back to Senegal.

Marguerite smiled, another small, empty smile. “Take care, _mon amie_,” she told de Verville. And then, without another word or a glance backward, she and her horse boarded the ferry.

de Verville stood on the Saint-Louis shore, watching as her blue-clad figure crossed the waters, moved onto the distant coast…

…and then could be seen no more.

*********


End file.
